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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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How many times the word 'hill' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

important

How many times the word 'important' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

thinks

How many times the word 'thinks' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

moves

How many times the word 'moves' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

study

How many times the word 'study' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

sun

How many times the word 'sun' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

unspoiled

How many times the word 'unspoiled' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

piece

How many times the word 'piece' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

hear

How many times the word 'hear' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

stripping

How many times the word 'stripping' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

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this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

gestures

How many times the word 'gestures' appears in the text?

this thing is going to blow 'em all away. It's a neural-net process -- TARISSA I know. You told me. It's a neural-net processor. It thinks and learns like we do. It's superconducting at room temperature. Other computer are pocket calculators by comparison. (she pulls away from him) But why is that so goddamn important, Miles? I really need to know, 'cause I feel like I'm going crazy here, sometimes. DYSON I'm sorry, honey, it's just that I'm thiiis close. He holds up his thumb and index finger... a fraction of an inch apart. She picks up the prototype. It doesn't look like much. DYSON Imagine a jetline with a pilot that never makes a mistake, never gets tired, never shows up to work with a hangover. (he taps the prototype) Meet the pilot. TARISSA Why did you marry me, Miles? Why did we have these two children? You don't need us. Your heart and your mind are in here. (she stares at the metal box in her hands) But it doesn't love you like we do. He takes the anodized box from her hands and sets it down. Then he puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her gently. She acquiesces to his kiss. DYSON I'm sorry. Tarissa glances over his shoulder. She nods her head toward the doorway to the study. Dyson turns and sees their two kids standing there. Danny (6) and Blythe (4) look rumpled and adorable in their PJs. Dyson wilts at their hopeful expressions. TARISSA How about spending some time with your other babies? Dyson grins. The forces of darkness have lost this round. He holds out his hands and his kids run to him, cheering. CUT TO: A100 EXT. DESERT/COMPOUND - DAY The desert northwest of Calexico. Burning under the sun like a hallucination. Heat shimmers the image, mirage-like. Terminator turns the pickup off the paved road and barrels along a roadbed a sand and gravel, trailing a huge plume of dust. A sign at the turnoff says: CHARON MESA 2 MI CALEXICO 15 MI A101 AHEAD is a pathetic oasis of humanity in the vast wasteland, a couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash. There is a dirt airstrip behind the trailers, and a stripped Huey helicopter sitting on block nearby. The truck rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. The place looks deserted. The door to the nearest trailer bangs in the wind. SARAH (to Terminator and John) Stay in the truck. A102 ANGLE FROM INSIDE ANOTHER TRAILER, NEARBY. A DARK FIGURE in the F.G. has an AK-47 trained on the pickup as Sarah gets out. ON SARAH peering through the backlit dust. The sound of wind. She approaches the trailer. SARAH (in Spanish) Enrique? You here? She hears KACHANK! behind her and spins, whipping out her .45 in one motion. ENRIQUE SALCEDA stands behind a rusting jeep, a 12-gauge pump trained on her. He is mid-forties, a tough Guatemalan with a weathered face and heavy mustache. He wears cowboy boots and a flak vest, no shirt. SALCEDA You pretty jumpy, Connor. His fierce face breaks into a broad grin. The shotgun drops to his side as he walks toward her. When he reaches her he hugs her, then steps back. SALCEDA (in Spanish) Good to see you, Connor. I knew you'd make it back here sooner or later. He grins at John as he steps from the truck, and then clocks Terminator getting out. SALCEDA Oye, Big John! Que pasa? Who's your very large friend? JOHN (perfect Spanish) He's cool, Enrique. He's... uh... this is my Uncle Bob. (to Terminator, in English) Uncle Bob, this is Enrique. Terminator smiles. Sort of. Salceda squints at him, SALCEDA Hmmm. Uncle Bob, huh? Okay. (yelling) Yolanda. Get out here, we got company. And bring some fucking tequila! A thin Guatemalan KID, FRANCO, eighteen or so, comes out of the trailer with the AK-47, followed by Salceda's wife, YOLANDA. She has THREE younger children with her, from a five-year-old GIRL, JUANITA, to a year-and-half-old BOY. She waves at John. They exchange greetings in Spanish. They seem like nice people. Terminator looks down at John, next to him. He says quietly... TERMINATOR Uncle Bob? SALCEDA (to Sarah) So, Sarahlita, you getting famous, you know that? All over the goddamn TV. Salceda rips the cap off the tequila bottle. The two-year-old toddles to Terminator and grabs his pants, sliming them with drool. Terminator looks down at the tiny kid, fascinated. What is it? He picks up the child with one huge hand. Looks at it. Turns it different ways. Studying it. Then sets it down. The kid waddles off, a little dizzy. SALCEDA Honey, take Pacolito. Thanks, baby. She hands him the tequila and takes the child. Salceda takes a long pull from the Cuervo bottle. SALCEDA (to Terminator) Drink? Terminator gestures "no" at the proffered bottle, but Sarah grabs it and takes a long pull. She lowers it without expression. Her eyes don't even water. SARAH I just came for my stuff. And I need clothes, food, and one of your trucks. SALCEDA (grinning) Hey, how about the fillings out of my fucking teeth while you're at it? SARAH Now, Enrique. (turns to Terminator and John) You two are on weapons detail. CUT TO: A103 EXT. COMPOUND/BEHIND THE TRAILERS There is an aging and rusted Caterpillar sitting behind one of the trailers. John expertly backs it toward Terminator who is holding one end of a piece of heavy chain which disappears into the sand. JOHN Hook it on. Terminator hooks the chain onto the towhook on the back of the tractor. John hits the throttle and the Cat churns its treads, pulling some massive load. A six-by-eight foot sheet of steel plate moves slowly under six inches of sand. John drags it far enough to reveal... a rectangular hole in the ground. Like the mouth of a tomb. The kid drops down from the tractor and walks to the hole. JOHN One thing about my mom... she always plans ahead. A104 INT. WEAPONS CACHE From inside the "tomb". Sunlight slashes down into a cinder-block room, less than six feet wide but over twenty long. Sand spills down the steps. The walls are lined with guns. John precedes Terminator into Sarah's weapons cache. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, mortars, RPGs, radio gear. At the far end, boxes containing ammo, grenades, etc. are stacked to the ceiling. Terminator gets real alert. Scanning, wondering where to begin. He picks up a MAC-10 machine pistol. Racks the bolt. TERMINATOR Excellent. JOHN Yeah, I thought you'd like this place. A105 EXT. COMPOUND/NEARBY Sarah emerges from a trailer. She has changed. Boots, black fatigue pants, T-shirt. Shades. She looks hard. Salceda is nearby, packing food and other survival equipment with Yolanda. He looks up as Sarah approaches, and slaps the side of a BIG FOUR-BY BRONCO next to him, SALCEDA This is the best truck, but the water pump is blown. You got the time to change it out? SARAH Yeah. I'm gonna wait till dark to cross the border. (she pulls him away from Yolanda) Enrique, it's dangerous for you here. You get out tonight, too, okay? SALCEDA Yeah, Saralita. Sure. (he grins) Just drop by any time and totally fuck up my life. She slaps him on the shoulder. CUT TO: A106 INT. WEAPONS CACHE Terminator returns from carrying out several cases of ammo. John is selecting rifles from a long rack. JOHN See, I grew up in places like this, so I just thought it was how people lived... riding around in helicopters. Learning how to blow shit up. John grabs an AK-47 and racks the bolt with a practiced action. Inspects the receiver for wear. Doesn't like what he sees. Puts is back. His movement are efficient. Professional. Uninterested. JOHN Then, when Mom got busted I got put in a regular school. The other kids were, like, into Nintendo. Terminator has found a Vietnam-era "blooper" M-79 grenade launcher. A very crude but effective weapon. He opens the breech and inspects the bore. JOHN Are you ever afraid? Terminator pauses for a second. The thought never occurred to him. He searches him mind for the answer... TERMINATOR No. Terminator slings the M-79 and starts looking for the grenades. JOHN Not even of dying? TERMINATOR No. JOHN You don't feel any emotion about it one way or the other? TERMINATOR No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter. John is idly spinning a Sig Saur 9mm pistol on his finger... backwards and forwards like Bat Masteron. JOHN Yeah. I have to stay functional too. (sing-songy) "I'm too important". Terminator pulls back a canvas tarp, revealing a squat, heavy weapon with six barrels clustered in a blunt cylinder. Chain-ammo is fed from a canister sitting next to it. A G.E. MINI-GUN. The most fearsome anti-personnel weapon of the Vietnam era. Terminator hefts it. Looks at John as if to say "Can I? Please?" JOHN It's definitely you. CUT TO: A107 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY/LATER Sarah and John have their weapons and supply selections laided out on two battered picnic tables for cleaning and packing. Maps, radios, documents, explosives, detonators... just the basics. Sarah is field- stripping and cleaning guns, very methodical. There is no wasted motion. Not far away, John and Terminator are working on the Bronco. They're greasy up to their elbows, lying on their backs under the engine compartment, ratcheting bolts into places on the new water pump. JOHN There was this one guy that was kinda cool. He taught me engines. Hold this a second. Mom screwed it up, of course. Sooner or later she'd always tell them about Judgment Day and me being this world leader and that's be all she wrote. John thinks he's being causal, but his longing for some kind of parental connection is obvious. TERMINATOR Torque wrench please. JOHN Here. I wish I coulda met my real dad. TERMINATOR You will. JOHN Yeah. I guess so. My mom says when I'm, like, 45, I think, I send him back through time to 1984. But right now he hasn't even been born yet. Man, is messes with your head. Where's that other bolt? (Terminator hands it to him) Thanks. Mom and him were only together for one night, but she still loves him, I guess. I see her crying sometimes. She denies it totally, of course. Like she says she got something in her eye. They crawl out from under the truck into the bright sunlight. TERMINATOR Why do you cry? JOHN You mean people? I don't know. We just cry. You know. When it hurts. TERMINATOR Pain causes it? JOHN Uh-unh, no, it's different... It's when there's nothing wrong with you but you hurt anyway. You get it? TERMINATOR No. Terminator gets into the Bronco and turns the ignition key and the engine catches with a roar. JOHN Alriight!! My man! TERMINATOR No problemo. John grins and does a victorious thumbs up. Terminator imitates the gesture awkwardly. John laughs and makes him get out of the truck, to try the move again. A108 SARAH, across the compound, pauses in her work to watch John and Terminator. A109 SARAH'S POV... we don't hear what John and Terminator are saying. It is a soundless pantomime as John is trying to show some other gestures to the cyborg. Trying to get him to walk more casually. John walks, then Terminator tries it, then John gestures wildly, talking very fast... explaining the fundamental principles of cool. They try it again. Continued ad lib as we hear: SARAH (V.O.) Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The Terminator would never stop, it would never leave him... it would always be there. And it would never hurt him, never shout at him or get drunk and hit him, or say it couldn't spend time with him because it was too busy. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who came and went over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only one who measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice. Sarah clenches her jaw and goes grimly back to work... a strong woman made hard and cold by years of hard choices. CUT TO; A110 EXT. ROAD - DAY A police cruiser is parked off the side of a quiet, empty road on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A ribbon of traffic moves steadily by on a freeway in the distance. Nothing stirs around the cruiser except some pump-jacks sucking the earth on the hill behind it. A111 IN THE CRUISER. The T-1000 sits inside. John's notes and letters are spread out on the seat beside it. Sarah's voice speaks from a cassette deck. John's tapes. Her voices mixes with the static filled chatter of the radio that T-1000 monitors for any signs of its targets. SARAH ... if we are ever separated, and can't make contact, go to Enrique's airstrip. I'll rendezvous with you there. T-1000 whips around and rewinds the tape, replaying the last section. It then snaps up the envelope of photos we saw earlier. ECU on envelope. We see the postmark: "Charon Mesa, Calif." TIGHT ON T-1000 staring at the postmark on the envelope. It glances up at the sound of crunching gravel. In the rear-view it sees a BIKE COP pulling onto the shoulder behind it. The big KAWASAKI 1100 idles up next to the T-1000, still seated in the cruiser. BIKE COP Howdy. I saw you pulled over here earlier. Everything okay? T-1000 Everything's fine. Thanks for checking. (it gets slowly out of the car) Since you're here, though, can I talk to you a second... CUT TO: A112 EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY/MINUTES LATER The T-1000 thunders along on the Kawasaki 1100, doing about a hundred and twenty. PAN WITH IT until it recedes toward the horizon. CUT TO: A113 EXT. COMPOUND - DAY (LATE AFTERNOON) Sarah sits at the picnic table. The weapons are cleaned and her work is done. She hasn't slept in twenty-four hours and she seems to have the weight of the whole world on her shoulder. She draws her knife from its belt sheath. Idly starts to carve something on the table top... the letter "N". A114 NOT FAR AWAY, John and Terminator are packing the Bronco for the trip. A115 ON SARAH, AT THE TABLE as she looks up from her carving, thinking. She watches Salceda's kids playing nearby... wrestling with a mutty dog and loving it. Sarah watches Yolanda walking her toddler by her hands. Backlit, stylized. She looks over at John. Loading guns and supplies. A116 ANGLE ON kids playing. A117 SARAH'S HEAD droops. She closes her eyes. A118 TIGHT ON small children playing. Different ones. Wider now, to reveal a playground in a park. Very idyllic. A dream playground, crowded with laughing children playing on swings, slides, and a jungle gym. It could be the playground we saw melted and frozen in the post-nuclear desolation of 2029. But here the grass is vibrant green and the sun is shining. 118A Sarah, short-haired, looking drab and paramilitary, stands outside the playground. An outsider. Her fingers are hooked in a chain-link fence and she is staring through the fence at the young mothers playing with their kids. A grim-faced harbinger. 118B Some girls play skip-rope. Their sing-song weaves through the random burbling laughter of the kids. One of the young mothers walks her two-year-old son by the hands. She is wearing a pink waitress uniform. She turns to us, laughing. It is Sarah. Beautiful. Radiant. Sarah from another life, uncontaminated by the dark future. She glances at the strange woman beyond the fence. 118C Grim-faced Sarah presses against the fence. She starts shouting at them in SLOW MOTION. No sound comes from her mouth. She grabs the fence in frustration, shaking it. Screaming soundlessly. Waitress Sarah's smile falls. Then returns as her little boy throws some sand at her. She laughs, turns away, as if the woman at the fence were a shadow, a trick of light. 118D-118F OMITTED 118G THE SKY EXPLODES. The children ignite like match heads. Sarah is burning, screaming silently, everything silent and overexposed. 118H THE BLAST WAVE HITS... devouring the cowering mothers and children. Sarah's scream merges with the howl of the wind as the shockwave rips into her, blasting her apart and she... 119 Wakes up. All is quiet and normal. The children are still playing nearby. Less than fifteen minutes have gone by. Bathed in sweat, Sarah sits hunched over the table. Every muscle is shaking. She is gasping. Sarah struggles to breathe, running her hand through her hair which is soaked with sweat, She can escape from the hospital, but she can't escape from the madness which haunts her. She looks down at the words she has carved on the table, amid the scrawled hearts and bird-droppings. They are: "NO FATE." Something changes in her eyes. She slams her knife down in the table top, embedding it deeply in the words. Then gets up suddenly and we -- CUT TO: A120 LONG LENS on Sarah walking toward us, striding across the compound with grim purpose. She carries a small nylon pack and a CAR-15 assault rifle. Her face is an impassive mask. She has become a terminator. A120A JOHN LOOKS UP from his work in time to see Sarah throw the rifle behind the seat of their stolen pickup, jump in and start it. She slams it in gear. Salceda walks up to John. SALCEDA She said you go south with him... (he points at Terminator) ... tonight, like you planned. She will meet you tomorrow in... But John is moving, running after her. JOHN Mommm!! Wait!! A120B MOVING WITH SARAH as she leaves the compound. We see John running after her... yelling. Can't hear his words. She looks in the rear- view mirror but doesn't slow down. CUT TO: A121 EXT. COMPOUND - DUSK/MINUTES LATER John and Terminator ponders the message carved into the top of the picnic table. Sarah's knife is still embedded there. JOHN "No fate." No fate but what we make. My father told her this... I mean I made him memorize it, up in the future, as a message to her -- Never mind. Okay, the whole thing goes "The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." TERMINATOR She intends to change the future somehow. JOHN I guess, yeah -- (snaps his fingers as it hit him) Oh shit!! TERMINATOR Dyson. JOHN Yeah, gotta be! Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away! John motions to Terminator and breaks into a run. JOHN Come on. Let's go. LET'S GO!! CUT TO: A122 INT./EXT. SARAH'S JEEP - DUSK Sarah speeds through the darkening desert. Expressionless. In her dark glasses, she looks as pitiless as an insect. DISSOLVE TO: A123 EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT TRACKING WITH THE BRONCO, Terminator and John heading toward L.A. TERMINATOR This is tactically dangerous. JOHN Drive faster. TERMINATOR The T-1000 has the same files that I do. It could anticipate this move and reacquire you at Dyson's house. JOHN I don't care. We've gotta stop her. TERMINATOR Killing Dyson might actually prevent the war. JOHN I don't care!! There's gotta be another way. Haven't you learned anything?! Haven't you figured out why you can't kill people? Terminator is still stumped. JOHN Look, maybe you don't care if you live or die. But everybody's not like that! Okay?! We have feelings. We hurt. We're afraid. You gotta learn this stuff, man, I'm not kidding. It's important. PANNING as they pass, revealing the lights of the city ahead. CUT TO: A124 EXT, DYSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT The house is high-tech and luxurious. Lots of glass. Dyson's study is lit bluish with the glow of his computer monitors. He is at the terminal, working. Where else? We see him clearly in a long shot from an embankment behind the house. A DARK FIGURE moves into the foreground. Rack focus to Sarah as she turns into profile. She raises the CAR-15 rifle and begins screwing the long heavy cylinder of a sound-suppresser onto the end of the barrel. CUT TO: A125-A125K OMITTED 129 OMITTED 129A INT. DYSON HOUSE Dyson's kids, Danny and Blythe, are playing in the halls with a radio- controlled off-road truck. Danny drives and Blythe scampers after it, trying to catch it. They stop in the hall outside Dyson's study and sees him working at his terminal. Danny puts a finger to his lips, shushing Blythe. His expression is mischievous. 129B With the silencer in place, Sarah eases back the bolt and then slips it forward, chambering a .223 round. Then she lies down on the embankment. He cheek pressed against the cool rifle-stock, she slides one hand slowly forward to brace the weapon, taking the weight on her elbow. Her other hand slips knowingly to the trigger. Her expression is cold, impassive. She looks through the scope at the man in the house. She feels nothing as she raises the rifle. 130 OMITTED 130A INT. DYSON'S HOUSE DYSON, in deep thought. The rhythmic sounds of keys as he works. Symbols on the screen shift. ON HIS BACK we see the glowing red dot appear. It is the target dot of Sarah's laser designator. It moves silently up his back toward his head. 131 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/EMBANKMENT IN EXTREME CLOSEUP we see Sarah's eye at the night-scope. TIGHT INSERT on her finger as it tightens on the trigger, taking out the slack. She takes a deep breath and holds it. Adjusts her position minutely. 132 INT. DYSON HOUSE The laser dot jiggles on the back of Dyson's neck and then rises, centering on the back of his skull. 132A LOW ANGLE as Danny's Bigfoot truck roars toward us -- FILLING FRAME. Thump. It hits Dyson's foot. He jerks, startled, and looks down as -- POP!! 132B His monitor screen is BLOWN OUT spraying his with glass. He jerks back, utterly shocked... and spins to see the huge hole blown through the window behind him. This saves him as K-THUMP! -- the second shot blows the top of his high-backed chain into an explosion of stuffing an inch from his head. Instinctively he dives to the carpet as -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- rounds blast through the window, tearing into his desk and computer, blowing his keyboard into shrapnel. 132C With the monitor screen blown out, the room is in darkness. Sarah can't see Dyson now, down behind his desk. She puts round after round into the heavy desk, blasting one side of it into kindling. 132D Dyson, scared out of his mind, has his face jammed against the carpet, terrified to move. He sees his kids in the hall. DYSON Run, kids! Go! Run! 132E IN THE HALL, TARISSA rounds the corner at a dead run. She sees the kids running toward her and grabs them in her arms. Down the hall, in the dark study, she sees Dyson on the floor amid the splinters and shrapnel of the continuing fusillade. TARISSA Miles! Oh my God!! MILES Stay back!! 132F ON THE FLOOR, Dyson flinches as chucks of wood and shattered computer components shower down on him. He looks desperately toward the door, but knows he'd be totally exposed. He'd never make it. 133 SARAH's rifle empties with a final CLACK! She throws it down and draws her .45 smoothly from a shoulder base. She starts toward the house, snapping back the slide on the pistol, chambering a round. She is in a fast, purposeful walk, keeping her eyes fixed on the target. She is utterly determined to kill this man. 134 FROM UNDER THE DESK Dyson can see a sliver in the backyard. He sees Sarah's feet as she strides toward him. He tenses to make a break for the door. Sarah raises the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, controlling her breathing. Dyson springs up in a full-tilt sprint. She tracks him. He hooks a foot on the cord of a toppled disk drive. BOOM! Her shot blows apart a lamp where his head was. He hits the floor hard, but keeps moving, scrambling forward. Crunch of glass behind his as Sarah's dark form is framed in the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window. Dyson leaps toward the hall. BOOM! Her second shot spins him. He hits the floor in the hallway. Tarissa is screaming. Dyson struggles forward, stunned. There is a .45-caliber hole clean through his left shoulder. He smears the wall with blood as he staggers up. Looking back, he sees the implacable figure behind him, coming on. He topples through a doorway as -- BOOM! BOOM! Shots blowing away the molding where he just was. 135 EXT. DYSON HOUSE/STREET Terminator and John leap from the jeep, sprinting toward the house. The shots sound muffles from outside. JOHN Shit, we're too late! 136 INT. HOUSE Advancing with Sarah we enter the living area. Tarissa has Blythe and she's screaming at Danny, who has run back to his collapsed father. TARISSA Danny! DANNY! DANNY Daaaaddddeeee! Danny is pulling at Dyson, crying and screaming, as his father tries to stagger forward. Tarissa drops Blythe and runs back for Dyson, grabbing him. Sarah looms behind them with the pistol aimed. SARAH Don't fucking move! Don't FUCKING MOVE!! (she swings the gun on Tarissa) Get on the floor, bitch! Now!! Fucking down! NOW!! Sarah is crazy-eyed now, shaking with the intensity of the moment. The kill has gone bad, with screaming kids and the wife involved... things she never figured on. Tarissa drops to the knees, terrified as she looks into the muzzle of the gun. Blythe runs to Dyson and hugs him, wailing. BLYTHE Don't hurt my father! SARAH (screaming) Shut up, kid! Get out of the way!! Dyson looks up, through his pain and incomprehension. Why is this nightmare happening? The black gun muzzle is a foot from his face. DYSON (gasping) Please... let... the kids... go... SARAH Shut up! SHUT UP!! Motherfucker! It's all your fault! IT'S YOUR FAULT!! We see her psyching herself to pull the trigger... needing now to hate this man she doesn't know. It's a lot harder face-to-face. She is bathed in sweat, and it runs into her eyes. Blinking, she wipes it fast with one hand, then gets it back on the gun. The .45 is trembling. TIGHT ON SARAH as we see the forces at war behind her eyes. She looks into the faces of Dyson, Tarissa, Blythe, Danny. Sarah takes a sharp breath and all the muscles in her arms contract as she tenses to fire. But her finger won't do it. She lowers the gun very slowly. It drops to her side in one hand. All the breath and energy seems to go out of her. She weakly raises her other hand in a strange gesture, like "Stay where you are, don't move". As if, should they move, the fragile balance might tip back the other way. She backs away from them slowly, panting. It's as if she's backing away in terror from what she almost did. She reaches a wall and slumps against it. Slides down to her knees. The gun falls limply from her fingers. She rests her cheek against the wall. 136A The front door is kicked in. Terminator steps inside. John grabs his sleeve and pushes past him. He scopes out the situation in two seconds... Sarah, the gun, the sobbing family. John moves to Sarah while Terminator checks Dyson. John kneels in front of his mother. She raises her head to look at him. He sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, JOHN Mom? You okay? SARAH I couldn't... oh, God. (she seems to she him for the first time) You... came here... to stop me? JOHN Uh huh. She reaches out and takes his shoulder suddenly, surprising him... drawing him to her. She hugs him and a great sob wells up deep inside her, from a spring she had thought long dry. She hugs him fiercely as the sobs wrack her. John clutches her shoulders. It is all he ever wanted. JOHN It's okay. It'll by okay. We'll figure it out. SARAH I love you, John. I always have. JOHN I know, Mom. I know. TARISSA looks around at the bizarre tableau. Terminator has wordlessly ripped open Dyson's shirt and examined the wound. TERMINATOR Clean penetration. No shattered bone. Compression should control the loss of blood. He takes Tarissa's hands and presses them firmly over the entrance and exit wounds. TERMINATOR Do you have bandages? DYSON In the bathroom. Danny, can you get them for us? Danny nods and runs down the hall. John disengages from Sarah. She wipes her tears, the instinct to toughen up taking over again. But the healing moment has had its effect, nevertheless. John walks toward Dyson and Terminator. DYSON Who are you people? John draws the Biker's knife from Terminator's boot. Hands it to him. JOHN Show him. Terminator takes off his jacket to reveal bare arms. John takes Blythe by the hands and leads her down the hall, away from what is about to happen. 136B TIGHT ON TERMINATOR'S left forearm as the knife makes a deep cut just below the elbow. In one smooth motion, Terminator cuts all the way around his arm. With a second cut, he splits the skin of the forearm from elbow to wrist. TERMINATOR grasps the skin and strips is off his forearm like a surgeon rips off a rubber glove. It comes off with a sucking rip, leaving a bloody skeleton. But the skeleton is made of bright metal, and is laced with hydraulic actuators. The fingers are as finely crafted as watch parts... they flex into a fist and extend. Terminator holds it up, palm out, in almost the exact

uncommon

How many times the word 'uncommon' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

care

How many times the word 'care' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

swimmers

How many times the word 'swimmers' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

cluttered

How many times the word 'cluttered' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

occupation

How many times the word 'occupation' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

really

How many times the word 'really' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

greatly

How many times the word 'greatly' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

ethereal

How many times the word 'ethereal' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

mind

How many times the word 'mind' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

sorry

How many times the word 'sorry' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

brown

How many times the word 'brown' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

breast

How many times the word 'breast' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

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this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

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this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

promises

How many times the word 'promises' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

aunt

How many times the word 'aunt' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

acts

How many times the word 'acts' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

regret

How many times the word 'regret' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

especially

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this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

going

How many times the word 'going' appears in the text?

this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me. "I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds." Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me." Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last. "Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate." "So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him." "Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times." "This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man." "Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out." "Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband. "Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now." A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies." "Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking." "He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy." "Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora. "I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically. "Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences." "And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora. "I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice. "Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable." Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser. "Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. "Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora. "It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves." "Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?" As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey. On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. CHAPTER LXX. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. "If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said. "You are so hard," said Lady Glencora. "So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser. "I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. "My name is John Grey," said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. "Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river." They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night. "Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?" Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly. "Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora. "My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice. "Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool." Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said. "Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?" "Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come." "Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?" "Well?" said Alice. "Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?" "No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it." "I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed." "It would not have made much difference." "Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?" "What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come." "And you have never said a word about it." "He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away." "Why;--why;--why would it be better?" "Because his being here will do no good to any one." "No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call." "He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!" "And may we ask him to dine with us?" "Oh, yes." "And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all." It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it? [Illustration: Alice.] She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out;

settled

How many times the word 'settled' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

surely

How many times the word 'surely' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

provoke

How many times the word 'provoke' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

extended

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

abuse

How many times the word 'abuse' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

voice

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

ordinary

How many times the word 'ordinary' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

dread

How many times the word 'dread' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

mothers

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

silent

How many times the word 'silent' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

wishes

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

boots

How many times the word 'boots' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

river

How many times the word 'river' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

indelicate

How many times the word 'indelicate' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

arms

How many times the word 'arms' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

courage

How many times the word 'courage' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

care

How many times the word 'care' appears in the text?

thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

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thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish." He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done. "I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk." CHAPTER VI. The Bridge over the Rhine. "George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--" "A man must shave,--even at Basle." "But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?" "When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it." "Oh, yes; I shall like it." "Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure. "Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away." "Where do you want to run to?" "Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it." "But why run away just now?" "I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here." "If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us." "That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow." "It's your own choice." "No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!" "I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman." "She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?" "No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural." "He was thirty years older than herself." "But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death." "No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees." "Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?" "Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her." "Then you're as bad as she is." "Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?" "Nothing, I should say." "Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money." "I should think no one." "Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself." "Why is it?" "Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house." "And serve you right too after what had happened." "I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you." Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing." "I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world." "I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned." "I can't fancy anything else," said Alice. "It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam." "And so arrive there without your clothes," said George. "They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose." Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech. At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said. "No indeed." "If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air." "It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?" "Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy." "I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver." "It's not because you have committed any murder then." "No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose." "Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed." "Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move. "Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five." "I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?" "I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George. "Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate. "Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed." They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come. But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity." "And bid her throw John Grey over!" "Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer." "Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement." "She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes." "Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion." "But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?" "Upon my word I don't know." "Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again." "Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone." "Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful." "Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?" "But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes." "I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it." "If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her." "Did and do are different things." "Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me." "Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed." "But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again." "Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?" "No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart." "I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed." With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing." "You said we'd do it together." "But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?" "I don't think he ever will," said Alice. "Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?" "Never; nor yet wild." "Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild." "When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him." "No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before." "I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?" "Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--" "Ever since what?" "Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen." "And what's that?" "Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else." "Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible." "Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!" "Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her. "Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall. "Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way." "Of course I shouldn't,--but I do." "You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it." "He does wish it." "Not though I were under no other engagement." "And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?" "You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate." "Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath." "If you think ill of me like that--" "No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr." "And which is the Satyr?" "I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it." To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career. It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent. About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg. There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. CHAPTER VII. Aunt Greenow. Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man. She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that

glance

How many times the word 'glance' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

mary

How many times the word 'mary' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

c'm

How many times the word 'c'm' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

feverishly

How many times the word 'feverishly' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

us'pud

How many times the word 'us'pud' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

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How many times the word 'jesus' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

goodwin

How many times the word 'goodwin' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

bliss

How many times the word 'bliss' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

apartment

How many times the word 'apartment' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

fully

How many times the word 'fully' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

protectively

How many times the word 'protectively' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

sink

How many times the word 'sink' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

eye

How many times the word 'eye' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

yes

How many times the word 'yes' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

politely

How many times the word 'politely' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

probably

How many times the word 'probably' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

photo

How many times the word 'photo' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

picking

How many times the word 'picking' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

sobs

How many times the word 'sobs' appears in the text?

through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

new

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through -- idly pushing a mirrored door open, to gaze, in awe, at the walk-in closet. MIKE (under his breath) Fuckin' A. ANGLE: He see T.J., or what he thinks is T.J., reflected among the other reflections at the other end of the room. Sees T.J. sit on edge of bed. MIKE is standing in center of the MIRRORS, slightly disoriented. And T.J. sees him, similarly astounded, MOVING OUT OF SHOT. CLOSE ON MIKE: Moving inward, he gawks at the racks of clothes, gently brushing his hand through the lush fabrics. CLAIRE'S VOICE -- ANGRY, ALMOST TREMBLING, A FIRM EFFORT OF WILL -- rustles the silence behind him. CLAIRE Excuse me. ANGLE ON CLAIRE CLAIRE This is my dressing room, and these are my clothes. (holding herself firm) I understand your responsibilities... but I'd appreciate you staying out of here at all times. MIKE: chastened, nods. MIKE Sorry. Just checking. He starts away. MOMENTARILY baffled by the MANY-ANGLED REFLECTIONS OF HIMSELF in the MIRRORS. CLAIRE Straight ahead. MIKE Hard to find doors in this place. MIKE: embarrassed, apologetic. CLAIRE ... Detective Keegan, I hope you understand how upsetting this is? CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S OUTER VESTIBULE - NIGHT All silent; MIKE on "watch". Just him and a wooden desk chair, the grade-school variety. No books, no crossword puzzles; he came unprepared. He checks his watch and looks to an ornate wall clock. And he's bored. He picks up an empty coffee cup, looking for a last drop. Settles for sniffing it. Replaces it on the floor beside him. Then he looks to the closed doors of the apartment and makes a decision. Picking up the coffee cup, he quietly pushes the DOORS OPEN, and ENTERS. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT As MIKE pads quietly across the marble floors in the quiet; pausing to gaze, in awe, at the vast, empty LIVING ROOM. It is gigantic, his eyes roaming the ceilings, as though to estimate their height. Moving inward, his eyes fall on a BOOK RACK, and he crosses to it, perusing the shelves for possible reading material. They're all ART BOOKS, the big, thick kind. A Renoir, because of a NUDE FIGURE on the cover, catches his eye. But as he pulls it out and begins to leaf through -- he HEARS VOICES. CLAIRE'S and NEIL'S; her tone is agitated. NEIL (O.S.) (barely audible) ... just saying you should think twice about it... CLAIRE (O.S.) ... I don't want to talk about it... CLOSE ON MIKE: book under his arm, quietly moving toward the SOURCE: the DEN. It's door is slightly ajar; there is a suitcase in front of it, ready for travel. INT. DEN - NIGHT CLAIRE ... You know, and I know, that the only thing standing between a life sentence for Venza and his freedom is my testimony at his trial... NEIL Claire... CLAIRE ... He killed Win... he enjoyed it... NEIL Win made his choices, Claire. We all do -- CLAIRE And I'm making mine. She looks at him; a beat, emotionally. He remains steady. NEIL (gently) You're dealing with a psychopath. He gets out of jail in ten years, or five... or ninety days, and you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life... CLAIRE What am I supposed to do?! I saw one of my oldest friends get killed! And I saw who did it! (through tears) I can't just -- "let it go away"!! NEIL (gently) Claire... ANGLE - DEN. NEIL takes her in his arms, holding her tightly, affectionately, protectively. Holding her from behind, NEIL KISSES CLAIRE gently on her neck. She calms in his arms. RETURN: MIKE DODGES back quickly, through the living and dining rooms until he's in the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT Spotting the microwave, MIKE QUICKLY TOSSES in an English muffin -- peering at the dials, as he switches it on. But he hasn't escaped being a trespasser to what's going on in the far room. He can still HEAR THEM, though HE WHISTLES, trying not to. The English muffin BURSTS INTO FLAMES, MIKE desperately pulling it out, tossing it into the sink, feverishly fanning the air. ANOTHER ANGLE ON MIKE: becoming aware that HE'S NOT ALONE. He TURNS SUDDENLY to see MARY, the housekeeper, not ten feet from him, in the laundry room, coat on, fluffing her collar, ready to go home. MIKE (chagrined) I like 'em toasty. ANGLE ON MARY: staring at him, amused. MARY Good night, Mr. Keegan. She moves through the kitchen and EXITS. INT. VESTIBULE - LATER - NIGHT NEIL, with his briefcase, finally leaving. He crosses from the hallway. The TWO EYE EACH OTHER: MIKE attempting a cordial smile. NEIL You're here 'til what time? MIKE I'm relieved at 4:00 A.M. NEIL noticing the Renoir. NEIL When you're through with it, put it back, please, exactly where you found it, and don't use the library again. I have to leave town for a few days. Let's do everything we can to make this less of a trial for her, shall we? MIKE NODS. But when NEIL leaves, he makes a mock "military salute"; a click of the heels. CUT TO: INT. CLAIRE'S VESTIBULE - LATER 2:45 A.M. (the clock ON THE WALL); pindrop silence; MIKE alone. CLOSE ON MIKE: thoughtful, leafing through the Renoir. Like a man making the most of solitary confinement -- becoming aware of a NOISE. Though hard to make out in this windowless capsule, it is DISTANT THUNDER. It stirs life in him and his eyes wander reflexively upward, studying the ceiling -- then the doors of the apartment, left slightly ajar. ANGLE INSIDE THE APARTMENT: CAMERA FOLLOWING MIKE as he wanders inward, becoming aware of light coming from a drawing room. HE MOVES TOWARD, STOPPING. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE, dimly illuminated by the light of a desk lamp that throws a gentle glow around her -- seated, still as statuary, gazing out into the rain. CLOSE ON MIKE: watching her. DISSOLVE TO: INT. SUBWAY - ON THE MOVE - LATER The uncivilized hour indicated by the TOTALLY EMPTY SUBWAY, MIKE a lone figure, somewhat numbed, his eyes set into distant space -- as the SUBWAY reaches its DESTINATION, the blurry platform signs decelerating until we can make out the word "QUEENS". EXT. MIKE'S HOUSE - QUEENS The neighborhood still asleep in the predawn hour; MIKE picks up the newspaper... glancing at it, he opens it, sees an article and photograph of CLAIRE on the second page. He heads inwards... CUT TO: INT. MIKE'S BEDROOM - DAY Afternoon sunlight SPILLING IN as MIKE AWAKENS to the SOUND of a CAR MOTOR, faltering, then "chug-chugging" to another start, gasping, then revving. Someone's working on MIKE'S car. He looks at his alarm clock; it's 4:00 in the afternoon. CUT TO: EXT. MIKE'S BACKYARD - DAY ELLIE and TOMMY visible only as fragments as they work on MIKE'S car. ELLIE IS SEEN as a rear-end in blue jeans, the rest of her inside the hood; she calls to TOMMY to "try it again". It looks like no one's behind the wheel; but the very top of his head CAN BE SEEN as he strains to reach the accelerator. ANGLE ON MIKE: appearing at the door, in a freshly pressed suit, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He walks across the lawn towards them. MIKE Hey! What the hell're you doin' to my car? ELLIE emerges from underneath the hood, flushed. ELLIE Changing the sparks. They showed it on TV. What d'you think? MIKE I think television's a dangerous thing. ELLIE It's twenty bucks in the bank. Slamming the hood. TOMMY revs the engine ELLIE moving down the steps towards MIKE. ELLIE Enough, Tommy! C'mon. Get out of there! ELLIE moving towards MIKE, she slipping her hand into his underpants: Their eyes meet, lovingly. She laughs. MIKE Hey. The neighbors. ELLIE Let 'em eat their hearts out. She retrieves her cold coffee cup from the POTTING TABLE, checks out the picture of CLAIRE in the newspaper, he's left there. MIKE adjusts his tie. It's very colorful. ELLIE I read the article. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful. MIKE (Mister Honest) Well, actually, she looks better than that. ELLIE playfully makes a move, JABBING AT HIM, MIKE stops her, ending WITH A HUG. MIKE I've got to go. MIKE kisses her. ELLIE holds MIKE'S face with her gloved hand. MIKE See you Tommy. ANGLE ON ELLIE: as TOMMY comes up and leans against his mom: both watching MIKE primp, they share on the joke. MIKE turns, his face with grease on it. MIKE Okay? ELLIE Unbelievably handsome. You look fantastic in a suit. TOMMY Nice threads Dad. MIKE Yeah, I think so. MIKE leaves. INT. CLAIRE'S KITCHEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 6:30. The remains of a teeny gourmet meal, before him on the kitchen table. MIKE is playing an improvised hockey game, shooting peas through a goal made up of two water glasses, using his knife as a hockey stick. He HEARS the CLICK of HIGH HEELS approaching, crossing the vast marble floors. ANGLE FROM HIS POV: CLAIRE coming toward -- clearly dressed for the evening, her stride signaling determination. MIKE (brilliant) Hi. CLAIRE I'm sorry. I'm not sure how this works. I have to go out... is that all right? MIKE (unprepared) Uh... CLAIRE I have to pick something up before Bergdorf's closes, then stop at a reception just a few blocks away. MIKE (faltering) I think, maybe, that isn't such a great idea... CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber said that in all likelihood there was no real danger, is that true? MIKE Right. That's true. CLAIRE Can we go then? MIKE I'm supposed to call in. CLAIRE There's a phone in the car. She MOVES TOWARDS THE ELEVATOR: MIKE, stymied. INT. ELEVATOR - SAME - NIGHT They descend in silence, MIKE aware of being scrutinized. The ELEVATOR STOPS, MIKE about to get off, realizing they're stopped at the THIRD FLOOR, another TENANT stepping on. He's dressed in an expensive JOGGING SUIT, his key dangling from around his neck; he nods to CLAIRE and pushes "DOWN". The elevator RUMBLES downward. CLAIRE Do you have another tie? Something more conservative? MIKE (confused, then realizing) Oh... Yes... I don't have it with me. It's at home. EXT. CLAIRE'S BUILDING - SAME - NIGHT The JOGGER first out the door, taking off with fierce determination, followed by MIKE, who nervously checks the street, then opens the limo door and checks inside, then, finally, MOTIONS CLAIRE OUT. She moves smoothly into the limo; MIKE checks traffic behind them, then gets in, after. CUT TO: INT. LIMO - SAME - NIGHT MIKE fumbles, searching the console for the car phone. She finds it easily, picks it up. CLAIRE What's the number? CUT TO: INT. DOWNTOWN HEADQUARTERS - GARBER'S OFFICE GARBER is on the other end of the line. GARBER Oh, Jesus, what a fucking lunatic. Fucking shopping. (he thinks) I don't see that we have much choice. Jesus Christ. Tell her she's a fucking lunatic. GARBER slams down the phone. INT. CLAIRE'S LIMO - NIGHT MIKE sets down the phone. CLAIRE What did he say? MIKE He thinks you're being a little careless. He made the point several times. MIKE sets down the phone. They settle back; trying to feel "comfortable" in one another's presence. It's plenty awkward. CLAIRE You live in Manhattan? MIKE Queens... You know Queens? CLAIRE My father founded a music school there. The Milton Gregory School. He politely tries to place it, with no idea. CLAIRE I'm supposed to speak at their tenth anniversary. MIKE Nice. Maybe you'll stop by... have an aperitif... It evokes a slight smile but nothing more. MIKE Maybe not. CUT TO: EXT. 5TH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT The limo pulling up, MIKE hopping expertly out before it stops moving. It's parked in a red zone, with tow-away signs everywhere; a PATROLMAN notices from the curb. MIKE (to the driver) Don't move it. He flashes his shield at the PATROLMAN, takes a firm grip on CLAIRE'S elbow, guiding her in. ANGLE - AT THE ENTRANCE DOORS MIKE stiff-arms the revolving door, stopping outgoing shoppers to clear the way for CLAIRE; hops over to the fixed door, opening it quickly for her, hustling her effortlessly in, zip. ANGLE: CLAIRE, taken by it, but not displeased. INT. FIFTH AVENUE SHOP - NIGHT They cross toward the up escalator; she knows where she's going. PERFUME LADY Hello, Miss Gregory. CLAIRE steps onto the ESCALATOR; MIKE on alert, scrutinizing the crowd. He gets on right behind. They ascend. At the top LANDING, A DARK-SUITED MAN VEERS RIGHT INTO HER. CLAIRE flinches. MIKE MOVES PAST HER to the front, quickly handling the guy. The MAN jumps back. DARK-SUITED MAN I'm sorry... I thought this was down... ANGLE ON MIKE; SHAKEN. CLAIRE giving him a long unsteady look, too. CLAIRE Are you nervous? MIKE No, Ma'am. CUT TO: INT. SHOP - GIFT COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE keeping close watch as CLAIRE approves her purchase: a silver frame, containing an inscribed photo of CLAIRE and an elegant older woman. CLAIRE Would you wrap it for me, I'll be back in a moment. CLAIRE walks past MIKE. CLAIRE Could you come with me please. MIKE follows her. CLAIRE at the TIE COUNTER, points to the tie rack. CLAIRE Would you pick one out, please? MIKE Beg pardon? CLAIRE Since you're going to be my escort, you'll need a new tie. MIKE begins to connect, glancing down again at the tie he's wearing. CLAIRE selects a TIE, turning to the SALESPERSON, for his reaction. SALESPERSON Perfect. CLAIRE handing it to the SALESPERSON. CLAIRE Put it on my account, please. MIKE I got money. CLAIRE gives a look to the clerk to go ahead with her order. SALESPERSON goes off. CLAIRE If we had more time we'd work on the suit too. CUT TO: INT. THE LIMO - IN MOTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE AND CLAIRE; CLAIRE favorably assessing him in the new tie. CLAIRE You look quite elegant, actually. He looks down at it in silence; then, finally: MIKE My wife likes this suit. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: his vulnerability makes her smile. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT Clearly a "big deal," with Kleig lights and heavy LIMOUSINE and TAXI traffic being directed into place by COPS, some of whom we recognize. ANGLE ON A PAIR OF COPS, using flashlights to guide traffic -- spotting CLAIRE'S LIMOUSINE with the BLACK-AND- WHITE PATROL CAR following it, and signaling it into place. TRAFFIC COP (re: Claire's limo) Bring it in, close. The COP OPENS THE DOOR -- stunned to see MIKE STEP OUT, in suit and new tie -- looking like he belongs there. COP Jesus Christ. MIKE I'm on duty. COP What kind of work? Gigolo? CLAIRE steps out, utterly elegant, taking MIKE'S arm -- the traffic COPS now joined by those from the BLACK-AND- WHITE, as MIKE and CLAIRE head INWARD. The COPS wolf- whistle MIKE and razz him as they go, some beginning the STRAINS of "Just a Gigolo"... MIKE GIVES THEM THE FINGER behind his back. CUT TO: INT. THE RECEPTION - SAME - NIGHT MIKE and CLAIRE caught in a crush of people jamming the ENTRANCE WAY -- their bodies coming into close contact, so close that MIKE is forced into an awkward posture in order to stay close to her; one arm up in the air, uncomfortable about taking her arm. CLAIRE You can touch me, I won't bite. MIKE Not too sure about that. He takes her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The SOUND of a WOMAN'S (MARGE GOODWIN) VOICE attracts their attention. MARGE (pushing through) CLAIRE! Claire! Darling! Are you all right? She's a SOCIETY MATRON-TYPE, grabbing CLAIRE in an ever- so-concerned HUG. MARGE My God! I couldn't believe... my poor darling... and Win Hockings...! Antonia'll be so happy you're here, she says a "Lifetime Achievement Award" is like being invited to your own funeral while you're still alive... But ANTONIA, an elegant OLDER WOMAN, has already SPOTTED HER. ANTONIA Claire...! She pushes through, and fairly falls into CLAIRE'S arms. ANTONIA almost emotionally overcome, that CLAIRE has managed it. CLAIRE I wouldn't have missed it, Tony. ANTONIA You look so beautiful... ANTONIA looks up to see MIKE. CLAIRE This is Mike Keegan, the policeman assigned to protect me. Antonia Bolt... She looks up to SEE MIKE: it directs others to do the same. MARGE (change of tone) Hello. CLAIRE (introducing) Marge Woodwin, Antonia Bolt, this is Mike Keegan... MIKE (ultra respectful) Hello... (a deferential nod to Antonia) ... Ma'am. ANTONIA (liking him; to Claire) He's got nice eyes. Very gentle. (re: Mike's embarrassed reaction) And he blushes. I like that. Take good care of her. INT. THE RECEPTION - LATER - NIGHT CLAIRE in the thick of things -- a BAND PLAYING NOW -- occasionally glancing at MIKE -- who stands against a wall, ever watchful... CLOSE ON MIKE: TURNING to see a VERY PRETTY YOUNG THING come up to him; just "oozing" seduction. PRETTY YOUNG THING I hear you're a policeman. MIKE nods; eyes fixed on CLAIRE. MIKE Uh, yeah. I'm a policeman. PRETTY YOUNG THING Ever shot anyone? MIKE Yes. PRETTY YOUNG THING Does it make you... hard? MIKE ... Hard? PRETTY YOUNG THING Erect. You know, a "boner?" I'd heard that it gives you a boner, to shoot a man. MIKE'S eyes register abject dumbfoundment. MIKE Would you excuse me, please? HE PUSHES TOWARD CLAIRE, catching her eye. MIKE Would you consider leaving here pretty soon? CLAIRE relaxed, clearly having a good time. CLAIRE People think I'm stepping out on Neil. We're causing quite a scandal. MIKE (confidential) Hey! There are crazy people here. CLAIRE Let's get a drink. MIKE Ah... I shouldn't... on duty. She plows toward the crowded bar, just inside the ballroom entrance, MIKE following. CLAIRE I'll have a spritzer, order something soft for yourself... I must go for a pee. MIKE I'll come with you. CLAIRE I think I can probably do that on my own. CLOSE ON MIKE: Not amused. CLAIRE heads to the ladies' room across from the bar. MIKE watches her enter. Turns back to the bar, which is very busy and confused. MIKE (irritated) Gimme a spritzer, and a... vodka martini. MIKE seeing the Pretty Young Thing. MIKE Make it a double. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT as a pair of WOMEN finish their "touch-up" and head out, making way for CLAIRE to step up to the mirror to assess herself. The room momentarily empties. Putting her purse down she moves to a stall and enters. CUT TO: INT. BAR COUNTER - NIGHT MIKE, waiting, glancing back at the door as the TWO WOMEN EXIT, then turns to the BARMAN to receive the drinks. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME LOW ANGLE on the door -- as a pair of men's shoes pass through frame. CLOSE ON CLAIRE, inside a stall SHE HEARS FOOTSTEPS QUIETLY ENTER, followed by a CLICK of a DOOR. It's not the click of a stall door, because the FOOTSTEPS then proceed inward; WE HEAR A STALL DOOR CLOSE and LOCK. It gives her momentary pause, but she dismisses it, looking for her purse -- realizing she left it on the sink -- opening her stall door and heading out. She barely hears the "click" of the bolt sliding behind her -- and looks up, into the MIRROR, SEEING VENZA appear behind her. She SPINS -- but doesn't have time to CRY OUT. He's grabbed her by the THROAT. CUT TO: INT. BALLROOM - SAME MOMENT - NIGHT MIKE and the PRETTY YOUNG THING: she doesn't notice him trying to drift away. PRETTY YOUNG THING You know what? I don't think you're a policeman at all. I think you're just some schmuck who uses that "policeman" line as a come-on. CUT TO: INT. LADIES' ROOM - SAME - NIGHT CLAIRE attempting to breathe -- her FACE being brought to within an inch of his. VENZA Christ, you're one beautiful woman. I could kill you right now, but I'm not gonna... 'cause you're gonna help me. You're gonna see me in a police line-up and say it wasn't me. And if you don't do that, someone will come after you. They're gonna find you dead, with your face missing -- understood... Good... Because otherwise, it'd be this easy. CLOSE ON CLAIRE: her eyes wide with TERROR. He rubs his thumb across her mouth, smearing the lipstick. VENZA Now walk outta here. And if you ever see me again... you never saw me before. To make his point, he SQUEEZES HARDER -- CLAIRE'S eyes bulging, as TEARS run from her eyes. CUT TO: INT. MUSEUM - UPPER TIER - SAME - NIGHT MIKE, finally putting distance between him and the "PRETTY YOUNG THING." ANGLE: MIKE, as he catches sight of a back of a man (VENZA) moving out of the ladies' room. Stunned, MIKE PIVOTS, TURNING, SPRINTING IN THE DIRECTION of the ladies' room. OUTSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: Two women just go in. MIKE pushes his way in, slamming the door behind him. The OTHER WOMEN GASP, seeing MIKE invading their sanctuary. INSIDE THE LADIES' ROOM: MIKE CLOSE ON MIKE: RELIEVED BUT SHOCKED to see CLAIRE, disheveled, lipstick smeared across her mouth, throat and face, but otherwise uninjured. MIKE turns, calling to the TWO WOMEN coming in. MIKE Take care of her! MIKE TAKES OFF AFTER VENZA -- INT. UPPER TIER OUT OF LADIES' ROOM, AND UP THE RAMP TO THE NEAREST (THE UPPER) LEVEL. ANGLE: He sees VENZA get into the ELEVATOR. These is only one place for it to go -- DOWN. MIKE CHANGES DIRECTION and FRANTICALLY RUNS DOWN THE SPIRALING RAMP trying to keep pace with the descent of the elevator. At the GROUND LEVEL HE SEES THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN and VENZA EXITS AMIDST THE PARTY. ANGLE ON VENZA: VENZA MAKES HIS WAY TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE AND EXITS THE BUILDING. ANGLE ON MIKE: MIKE HURTLES DOWN THE RAMP AND DESPERATELY FIGHTS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CENTER of the PARTY and OUT the FRONT ENTRANCE. CUT TO: EXT. GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM - NIGHT MIKE EXITS the BUILDING bewildered; lost him... RUNS BLINDLY amidst PEDESTRIANS -- SPOTS VENZA AHEAD. ANGLE ON VENZA reaching someone MIKE CAN'T SEE. MIKE puts his hand in his jacket for his gun. MIKE Venza! VENZA HEARS and SLOWS, but DOESN'T TURN. ONLOOKERS turn. VENZA is talking to someone, taking his time. ANGLE ON VENZA: untroubled, turning; raising his arms, and SMILING. ANGLE ON MIKE: confused -- seeing that the man VENZA stopped to talk to is a PATROLMAN, he'd stopped to give himself up. CLOSE ON MIKE: breathless as he moves toward VENZA. MIKE frisks VENZA as he turns, SMILING at MIKE. CUT TO: INT. PRECINCT - DAY MIKE and T.J. with GARBER, MIKE being CONGRATULATED by COPS who pass. But GARBER doesn't look happy. MIKE (protesting) But I got him! He's in jail! Wasn't that the point...?! GARBER You apprehended him after he gave himself up -- MIKE It wasn't a bad bust. He gave himself up because he knew I was gonna nab him. GARBER Anyone who turns himself in makes a good case for bail. MIKE Even Joey Venza?! GARBER He's got a good lawyer, and he made a smart move. We've got a scared witness and a suspect who proved "good will" by turning himself in. MIKE (protesting) What about when she identifies him?! GARBER If she identifies him. (turns, unloading on him) Where the fuck were you anyway, cowboy! Venza was meat. He walked right past you, and now we're the ones playing catch-up! You better hope she identifies him. GARBER turns on his heel, ENTERING HIS OFFICE; leaving MIKE looking at T.J. Dismayed. T.J. Wasn't your fault. MIKE (exasperated) It was my fault, T.J. Fuck! CUT TO: EXT. TRACT HOME - BROOKLYN HEIGHTS - AFTERNOON A tree-lined neighborhood. The house has a FOR SALE sign in front; MIKE is standing in front of a cab, he's dressed for work -- he looks around. The cab pulls out, he heads for the front door. INT. TRACT HOME - AFTERNOON MIKE enters the house. It's nothing special. ELLIE is in another room. She joins MIKE. ELLIE The real estate lady left, she couldn't wait anymore. What took you? MIKE (upset) Oh, some shit. ELLIE What shit, honey? MIKE You don't want to hear about it. ELLIE begins to show him the place. ELLIE ... Look at the fireplace. You don't get workmanship like that anymore. ANGLE ON MIKE: preoccupied. ELLIE Ninety-seven five. What do you think? He nods, trying hard to "be there," but ELLIE isn't fooled; she assesses him with concern. ELLIE Honey. You got him. MIKE I don't know that Ellie. He might get out. Garber's not bein' straight with the witness, she could be in deep shit if she identifies him, and it's my job to convince her she won't be. ELLIE (the voice of sanity) She's got to identify him. MIKE Why? ELLIE (taken aback) Because the the only way to stop crime is to identify criminals. I can't believe you're talking this way Mister Detective -- I think she's got a lot of guts. MIKE I think -- she's crazy. ELLIE I'd identify him. MIKE I might stop you. A beat. ELLIE Oh I can see you've had a bad day. We'll see the house another time, okay? MIKE (trying to recover) No! No! I'm sorry. Ninety-seven five right? ELLIE Where'd you get the tie? He's wearing the tie CLAIRE bought him. MIKE (distracted) Bought it. ELLIE It's not your taste. MIKE What did she say the down payment was? PAUSE. DEAD SILENCE. MIKE She didn't like the other one, so she picked this one. ELLIE She took you shopping for a tie? MIKE I had to follow her to a store. ELLIE What's wrong with your paisley tie? MIKE Ellie, it was a formal party... ELLIE Excuse me! You went to a party with her? MIKE I'm her bodyguard, goddamnit... ELLIE I know you're her bodyguard. Did she buy it or did you? MIKE She bought it. ELLIE Why? MIKE I don't know why she bought me a tie! -- She's a generous person -- and she's a nice person -- and I could be settin' her up to be killed... you want the fuckin' tie? His VOICE resonates through the empty house, creating a ringing silence. ELLIE begins to giggle. ELLIE (joking) No, I don't want the 'fuckin'" tie -- I'm sorry -- (conciliatory) I'm glad she bought you a tie. You needed one. You look good in that tie. (a beat) Next time you two go shopping, maybe you could tell her we need a new Maytag stackable, double-decker washer and dryer set. MIKE smiles, she gives him a kiss, and a flick on the nose. ELLIE You want to see the bedroom. CUT TO: INT. DEN - LATER - NIGHT The WALL CLOCK reads 9:45. CLAIRE is working at her desk. She gets up and moves into the hallway where she sees MIKE through the half-opened door. CLAIRE moves to the doorway. CLAIRE Hi. Just checking to see if you're here. MIKE I came on at 8:00. An awkward silence. MIKE You all right? CLAIRE Yeah. MIKE I'm sorry about what happened. CLAIRE Listen, that was my fault. MIKE (disagreeing) I shouldn't have listened to you, I should've followed you right into the "can" the way he did. CLAIRE If I had known I was going to have company, he was right next to me. I think he heard me peeing! I hate that, I am glad he's in jail. She laughs, he smiles, both attempting to make light of it. But it's hard to make light of; the attempt quickly fades. CLAIRE Lieutenant Garber says when I identify him, they're going to lock him up and throw away the key. MIKE nods; buttoning his lip. CLAIRE I guess I'm supposed to do it in the morning. Identify him. MIKE (uneasy) Sooner, the better. CLAIRE He said he'd kill me. MIKE Big talk... Desperate guy. CLAIRE Right. How could he do that if he's in jail and they've thrown away the key...? MIKE is TORN. MIKE It's the right thing to do. Identifying him. She starts to walk away. MIKE Claire? CLAIRE Hmm... MIKE (holds up a book) You wouldn't happen to know what language they speak in India, do you? CLAIRE Urdu and Hindi. MIKE (amazed) Yeah, what a woman. He marks it in his CROSSWORDS: she moves closer,leaning over his shoulder to see. CLAIRE Didn't do very well, did you? MIKE (a laugh) Nope... never finished one yet. I hate these things. CLAIRE You were reading my Renoir. MIKE How did you know? CLAIRE You put it back in the wrong place... Do you like Renoir? MIKE (thoughtful) They're kind of fuzzy. CLAIRE You know why they're like that...? He was myopic... going blind. MIKE No kidding. In the SILENCE that follows, their eyes on each other, appraising. CLAIRE So, this could be your last night, huh? MIKE Could be, I guess. CLAIRE (a thought) Want to go out for a drink? (re: his surprised expression) I mean, we're both sitting here, and Joey Venza's in jail... MIKE (a beat) Yeah, I like that! Where you go, I follow. CUT TO: EXT. FIFTH AVENUE - NIGHT CLAIRE and MIKE walking; her arm looped in his -- the BLACK-AND-WHITE keeping pace alongside them -- their conversation animated, clearly enjoying one another's company. CLAIRE (laughing) You mean to tell me, a mugger would stay away from someone because they walked a certain way? MIKE Absolutely. Look at this. He demonstrates a peculiar walk; arms and legs moving in ridiculous awkwardness. CLAIRE That's the dumbest walk I ever saw! MIKE

hey

How many times the word 'hey' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

coursed

How many times the word 'coursed' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

guard

How many times the word 'guard' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

occurred

How many times the word 'occurred' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

rest

How many times the word 'rest' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

directly

How many times the word 'directly' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

shameless

How many times the word 'shameless' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

pains

How many times the word 'pains' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

nothing

How many times the word 'nothing' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

ladder

How many times the word 'ladder' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

pallid

How many times the word 'pallid' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

distant

How many times the word 'distant' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

passing

How many times the word 'passing' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

endure

How many times the word 'endure' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

immemorial

How many times the word 'immemorial' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

fear

How many times the word 'fear' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

many

How many times the word 'many' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

such

How many times the word 'such' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

awaken

How many times the word 'awaken' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

cont

How many times the word 'cont' appears in the text?

through the aperture. Beyond that shaft of light was utter blackness, and panic assailed the Cimmerian as he saw he would be swept on past that spot of light, and into the unknown blackness again. Then he saw something else: bronze ladders extended from the ledges to the water's surface at regular intervals, and there was one just ahead of him. Instantly he struck out for it, fighting the current that would have held him to the middle of the stream. It dragged at him as with tangible, animate slimy hands, but he buffeted the rushing surge with the strength of desperation and now drew closer and closer inshore, fighting furiously for every inch. Now he was even with the ladder and with a fierce, gasping plunge he gripped the bottom rung and hung on, breathless. A few seconds later he struggled up out of the seething water, trusting his weight dubiously to the corroded rungs. They sagged and bent, but they held, and he clambered up onto the narrow ledge which ran along the wall scarcely a man's length below the curving roof. The tall Cimmerian was forced to bend his head as he stood up. A heavy bronze door showed in the stone at a point even with the head of the ladder, but it did not give to Conan's efforts. He transferred his sword from his teeth to its scabbard, spitting blood--for the edge had cut his lips in that fierce fight with the river--and turned his attention to the broken roof. He could reach his arms up through the crevice and grip the edge, and careful testing told him it would bear his weight. An instant later he had drawn himself up through the hole, and found himself in a wide chamber, in a state of extreme disrepair. Most of the roof had fallen in, as well as a great section of the floor, which was laid over the vault of a subterranean river. Broken arches opened into other chambers and corridors, and Conan believed he was still in the great palace. He wondered uneasily how many chambers in that palace had underground water directly under them, and when the ancient flags or tiles might give way again and precipitate him back into the current from which he had just crawled. And he wondered just how much of an accident that fall had been. Had those rotten flags simply chanced to give way beneath his weight, or was there a more sinister explanation? One thing at least was obvious: he was not the only living thing in that palace. That gong had not sounded of its own accord, whether the noise had been meant to lure him to his death, or not. The silence of the palace became suddenly sinister, fraught with crawling menace. Could it be someone on the same mission as himself? A sudden thought occurred to him, at the memory of the mysterious B t-Yakin. Was it not possible that this man had found the Teeth of Gwahlur in his long residence in Alkmeenon--that his servants had taken them with them when they departed? The possibility that he might be following a will-o'-the-wisp infuriated the Cimmerian. Choosing a corridor which he believed led back toward the part of the palace he had first entered, he hurried along it, stepping gingerly as he thought of that black river that seethed and foamed somewhere below his feet. His speculations recurrently revolved about the oracle chamber and its cryptic occupant. Somewhere in that vicinity must be the clue to the mystery of the treasure, if indeed it still remained in its immemorial hiding-place. The great palace lay silent as ever, disturbed only by the swift passing of his sandaled feet. The chambers and halls he traversed were crumbling into ruin, but as he advanced the ravages of decay became less apparent. He wondered briefly for what purpose the ladders had been suspended from the ledges over the subterranean river, but dismissed the matter with a shrug. He was little interested in speculating over unremunerative problems of antiquity. He was not sure just where the oracle chamber lay, from where he was, but presently he emerged into a corridor which led back into the great throne-room under one of the arches. He had reached a decision; it was useless for him to wander aimlessly about the palace, seeking the hoard. He would conceal himself somewhere here, wait until the Keshani priests came, and then, after they had gone through the farce of consulting the oracle, he would follow them to the hiding-place of the gems, to which he was certain they would go. Perhaps they would take only a few of the jewels with them. He would content himself with the rest. Drawn by a morbid fascination, he re-entered the oracle chamber and stared down again at the motionless figure of the princess who was worshipped as a goddess, entranced by her frigid beauty. What cryptic secret was locked in that marvelously molded form? He started violently. The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken shirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissom limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red-- With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword. 'Crom! She's alive!' At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gaped up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness. She sat up with a supple ease, still holding his ensorceled stare. He licked his dry lips and found voice. 'You--are--are you Yelaya?' he stammered. 'I am Yelaya!' The voice was rich and musical, and he stared with new wonder. 'Do not fear. I will not harm you if you do my bidding.' 'How can a dead woman come to life after all these centuries?' he demanded, as if skeptical of what his senses told him. A curious gleam was beginning to smolder in his eyes. She lifted her arms in a mystical gesture. 'I am a goddess. A thousand years ago there descended upon me the curse of the greater gods, the gods of darkness beyond the borders of light. The mortal in me died; the goddess in me could never die. Here I have lain for so many centuries, to awaken each night at sunset and hold my court as of yore, with specters drawn from the shadows of the past. Man, if you would not view that which will blast your soul for ever, get hence quickly! I command you! Go!' The voice became imperious, and her slender arm lifted and pointed. Conan, his eyes burning slits, slowly sheathed his sword, but he did not obey her order. He stepped closer, as if impelled by a powerful fascination--without the slightest warning he grabbed her up in a bear-like grasp. She screamed a very ungoddess-like scream, and there was a sound of ripping silk, as with one ruthless wrench he tore off her skirt. 'Goddess! Ha!' His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. 'I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I'd gathered my wits I knew I'd seen you somewhere. You're Muriela, Zargheba's Corinthian dancing-girl. This crescent-shaped birthmark on your hip proves it. I saw it once when Zargheba was whipping you. Goddess! Bah!' He smacked the betraying hip contemptuously and resoundingly with his open hand, and the girl yelped piteously. All her imperiousness had gone out of her. She was no longer a mystical figure of antiquity, but a terrified and humiliated dancing-girl, such as can be bought at almost any Shemitish market-place. She lifted up her voice and wept unashamedly. Her captor glared down at her with angry triumph. 'Goddess! Ha! So you were one of the veiled women Zargheba brought to Keshia with him. Did you think you could fool me, you little idiot? A year ago I saw you in Akbitana with that swine, Zargheba, and I don't forget faces--or women's figures. I think I'll--' Squirming about in his grasp she threw her slender arms about his massive neck in an abandon of terror; tears coursed down her cheeks, and her sobs quivered with a note of hysteria. 'Oh, please don't hurt me! Don't! I had to do it! Zargheba brought me here to act as the oracle!' 'Why, you sacrilegious little hussy!' rumbled Conan. 'Do you not fear the gods? Crom! is there no honesty anywhere?' 'Oh, please!' she begged, quivering with abject fright. 'I couldn't disobey Zargheba. Oh, what shall I do? I shall be cursed by these heathen gods!' 'What do you think the priests will do to you if they find out you're an impostor?' he demanded. At the thought her legs refused to support her, and she collapsed in a shuddering heap, clasping Conan's knees and mingling incoherent pleas for mercy and protection with piteous protestations of her innocence of any malign intention. It was a vivid change from her pose as the ancient princess, but not surprising. The fear that had nerved her then was now her undoing. 'Where is Zargheba?' he demanded. 'Stop yammering, damn it, and answer me.' 'Outside the palace,' she whimpered, 'watching for the priests.' 'How many men with him?' 'None. We came alone.' 'Ha!' It was much like the satisfied grunt of a hunting lion. 'You must have left Keshia a few hours after I did. Did you climb the cliffs?' She shook her head, too choked with tears to speak coherently. With an impatient imprecation he seized her slim shoulders and shook her until she gasped for breath. 'Will you quit that blubbering and answer me? How did you get into the valley?' 'Zargheba knew the secret way,' she gasped. 'The priest Gwarunga told him, and Thutmekri. On the south side of the valley there is a broad pool lying at the foot of the cliffs. There is a cave-mouth under the surface of the water that is not visible to the casual glance. We ducked under the water and entered it. The cave slopes up out of the water swiftly and leads through the cliffs. The opening on the side of the valley is masked by heavy thickets.' 'I climbed the cliffs on the east side,' he muttered. 'Well, what then?' 'We came to the palace and Zargheba hid me among the trees while he went to look for the chamber of the oracle. I do not think he fully trusted Gwarunga. While he was gone I thought I heard a gong sound, but I was not sure. Presently Zargheba came and took me into the palace and brought me to this chamber, where the goddess Yelaya lay upon the dais. He stripped the body and clothed me in the garments and ornaments. Then he went forth to hide the body and watch for the priests. I have been afraid. When you entered I wanted to leap up and beg you to take me away from this place, but I feared Zargheba. When you discovered I was alive, I thought I could frighten you away.' 'What were you to say as the oracle?' he asked. 'I was to bid the priests to take the Teeth of Gwahlur and give some of them to Thutmekri as a pledge, as he desired, and place the rest in the palace at Keshia. I was to tell them that an awful doom threatened Keshan if they did not agree to Thutmekri's proposals. And, oh, yes, I was to tell them that you were to be skinned alive immediately.' 'Thutmekri wanted the treasure where he--or the Zembabwans--could lay hand on it easily,' muttered Conan, disregarding the remark concerning himself. 'I'll carve his liver yet--Gorulga is a party to this swindle, of course?' 'No. He believes in his gods, and is incorruptible. He knows nothing about this. He will obey the oracle. It was all Thutmekri's plan. Knowing the Keshani would consult the oracle, he had Zargheba bring me with the embassy from Zembabwei, closely veiled and secluded.' 'Well, I'm damned!' muttered Conan. 'A priest who honestly believes in his oracle, and can not be bribed. Crom! I wonder if it was Zargheba who banged that gong. Did he know I was here? Could he have known about that rotten flagging? Where is he now, girl?' 'Hiding in a thicket of lotus trees, near the ancient avenue that leads from the south wall of the cliffs to the palace,' she answered. Then she renewed her importunities. 'Oh, Conan, have pity on me! I am afraid of this evil, ancient place. I know I have heard stealthy footfalls padding about me--oh, Conan, take me away with you! Zargheba will kill me when I have served his purpose here--I know it! The priests, too, will kill me if they discover my deceit. 'He is a devil--he bought me from a slave-trader who stole me out of a caravan bound through southern Koth, and has made me the tool of his intrigues ever since. Take me away from him! You can not be as cruel as he. Don't leave me to be slain here! Please! Please!' She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee. 'Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you.' She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact. 'Good. When the priests come, you'll act the part of Yelaya, as Zargheba planned--it'll be dark, and in the torchlight they'll never know the difference. But you'll say this to them: "It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan. They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods."' She shivered, with an expression of desperation, but acquiesced. 'But Zargheba?' she cried. 'He'll kill me!' 'Don't worry about Zargheba,' he grunted. 'I'll take care of that dog. You do as I say. Here, put up your hair again. It's fallen all over your shoulders. And the gem's fallen out of it.' He replaced the great glowing gem himself, nodding approval. 'It's worth a room full of slaves, itself alone. Here, put your skirt back on. It's torn down the side, but the priests will never notice it. Wipe your face. A goddess doesn't cry like a whipped schoolgirl. By Crom, you do look like Yelaya, face, hair, figure and all! If you act the goddess with the priests as well as you did with me, you'll fool them easily.' 'I'll try,' she shivered. 'Good; I'm going to find Zargheba.' At that she became panicky again. 'No! Don't leave me alone! This place is haunted!' 'There's nothing here to harm you,' he assured her impatiently. 'Nothing but Zargheba, and I'm going to look after him. I'll be back shortly. I'll be watching from close by in case anything goes wrong during the ceremony; but if you play your part properly, nothing will go wrong.' And turning, he hastened out of the oracle chamber; behind him Muriela squeaked wretchedly at his going. Twilight had fallen. The great rooms and halls were shadowy and indistinct; copper friezes glinted dully through the dusk. Conan strode like a silent phantom through the great halls, with a sensation of being stared at from the shadowed recesses by invisible ghosts of the past. No wonder the girl was nervous amid such surroundings. He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets. He approached the lotus grove by a circuitous movement, and scarcely the rustle of a leaf proclaimed his passing. At the edge of the trees he halted suddenly, crouched like a suspicious panther among the deep shrubs. Ahead of him, among the dense leaves, showed a pallid oval, dim in the uncertain light. It might have been one of the great white blossoms which shone thickly among the branches. But Conan knew that it was a man's face. And it was turned toward him. He shrank quickly deeper into the shadows. Had Zargheba seen him? The man was looking directly toward him. Seconds passed. That dim face had not moved. Conan could make out the dark tuft below that was the short black beard. And suddenly Conan was aware of something unnatural. Zargheba, he knew, was not a tall man. Standing erect, his head would scarcely top the Cimmerian's shoulder; yet that face was on a level with Conan's own. Was the man standing on something? Conan bent and peered toward the ground below the spot where the face showed, but his vision was blocked by undergrowth and the thick boles of the trees. But he saw something else, and he stiffened. Through a slot in the underbrush he glimpsed the stem of the tree under which, apparently, Zargheba was standing. The face was directly in line with that tree. He should have seen below that face, not the tree-trunk, but Zargheba's body--but there was no body there. Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket, and a moment later drew aside a leafy branch and glared at the face that had not moved. Nor would it ever move again, of its own volition. He looked on Zargheba's severed head, suspended from the branch of the tree by its own long black hair. 3 The Return of the Oracle Conan wheeled supplely, sweeping the shadows with a fiercely questing stare. There was no sign of the murdered man's body; only yonder the tall lush grass was trampled and broken down and the sward was dabbled darkly and wetly. Conan stood scarcely breathing as he strained his ears into the silence. The trees and bushes with their great pallid blossoms stood dark, still and sinister, etched against the deepening dusk. Primitive fears whispered at the back of Conan's mind. Was this the work of the priests of Keshan? If so, where were they? Was it Zargheba, after all, who had struck the gong? Again there rose the memory of B t-Yakin and his mysterious servants. B t-Yakin was dead, shriveled to a hulk of wrinkled leather and bound in his hollowed crypt to greet the rising sun for ever. But the servants of B t-Yakin were unaccounted for. There was no proof they had ever left the valley. Conan thought of the girl, Muriela, alone and unguarded in that great shadowy palace. He wheeled and ran back down the shadowed avenue, and he ran as a suspicious panther runs, poised even in full stride to whirl right or left and strike death blows. The palace loomed through the trees, and he saw something else--the glow of fire reflecting redly from the polished marble. He melted into the bushes that lined the broken street, glided through the dense growth and reached the edge of the open space before the portico. Voices reached him; torches bobbed and their flare shone on glossy ebon shoulders. The priests of Keshan had come. They had not advanced up the wide, overgrown avenue as Zargheba had expected them to do. Obviously there was more than one secret way into the valley of Alkmeenon. They were filing up the broad marble steps, holding their torches high. He saw Gorulga at the head of the parade, a profile chiseled out of copper, etched in the torch glare. The rest were acolytes, giant black men from whose skins the torches struck highlights. At the end of the procession there stalked a huge negro with an unusually wicked cast of countenance, at the sight of whom Conan scowled. That was Gwarunga, whom Muriela had named as the man who had revealed the secret of the pool-entrance to Zargheba. Conan wondered how deeply the man was in the intrigues of the Stygian. He hurried toward the portico, circling the open space to keep in the fringing shadows. They left no one to guard the entrance. The torches streamed steadily down the long dark hall. Before they reached the double-valved door at the other end, Conan had mounted the other steps and was in the hall behind them. Slinking swiftly along the column-lined wall, he reached the great door as they crossed the huge throne-room, their torches driving back the shadows. They did not look back. In single file, their ostrich plumes nodding, their leopard-skin tunics contrasting curiously with the marble and arabesqued metal of the ancient palace, they moved across the wide room and halted momentarily at the golden door to the left of the throne-dais. Gorulga's voice boomed eerily and hollowly in the great empty space, framed in sonorous phrases unintelligible to the lurking listener; then the high priest thrust open the golden door and entered, bowing repeatedly from his waist, and behind him the torches sank and rose, showering flakes of flame, as the worshippers imitated their master. The gold door closed behind them, shutting out sound and sight, and Conan darted across the throne-chamber and into the alcove behind the throne. He made less sound than a wind blowing across the chamber. Tiny beams of light streamed through the apertures in the wall, as he pried open the secret panel. Gliding into the niche, he peered through. Muriela sat upright on the dais, her arms folded, her head leaning back against the wall, within a few inches of his eyes. The delicate perfume of her foamy hair was in his nostrils. He could not see her face, of course, but her attitude was as if she gazed tranquilly into some far gulf of space, over and beyond the shaven heads of the black giants who knelt before her. Conan grinned with appreciation. 'The little slut's an actress,' he told himself. He knew she was shriveling with terror, but she showed no sign. In the uncertain flare of the torches she looked exactly like the goddess he had seen lying on that same dais, if one could imagine that goddess imbued with vibrant life. Gorulga was booming forth some kind of a chant in an accent unfamiliar to Conan, and which was probably some invocation in the ancient tongue of Alkmeenon, handed down from generation to generation of high priests. It seemed interminable. Conan grew restless. The longer the thing lasted, the more terrific would be the strain on Muriela. If she snapped--he hitched his sword and dagger forward. He could not see the little trollop tortured and slain by these men. But the chant--deep, low-pitched and indescribably ominous--came to a conclusion at last, and a shouted acclaim from the acolytes marked its period. Lifting his head and raising his arms toward the silent form on the dais, Gorulga cried in the deep, rich resonance that was the natural attribute of the Keshani priest: 'Oh, great goddess, dweller with the great one of darkness, let thy heart be melted, thy lips opened for the ears of thy slave whose head is in the dust beneath thy feet! Speak, great goddess of the holy valley! Thou knowest the paths before us; the darkness that vexes us is as the light of the midday sun to thee. Shed the radiance of thy wisdom on the paths of thy servants! Tell us, oh mouthpiece of the gods: what is their will concerning Thutmekri the Stygian?' The high-piled burnished mass of hair that caught the torchlight in dull bronze gleams quivered slightly. A gusty sigh rose from the blacks, half in awe, half in fear. Muriela's voice came plainly to Conan's ears in the breathless silence, and it seemed, cold, detached, impersonal, though the Cimmerian winced at the Corinthian accent. 'It is the will of the gods that the Stygian and his Shemitish dogs be driven from Keshan!' She was repeating his exact words. 'They are thieves and traitors who plot to rob the gods. Let the Teeth of Gwahlur be placed in the care of the general Conan. Let him lead the armies of Keshan. He is beloved of the gods!' There was a quiver in her voice as she ended, and Conan began to sweat, believing she was on the point of an hysterical collapse. But the blacks did not notice, any more than they identified the Corinthian accent, of which they knew nothing. They smote their palms softly together and a murmur of wonder and awe rose from them. Gorulga's eyes glittered fanatically in the torchlight. 'Yelaya has spoken!' he cried in an exalted voice. 'It is the will of the gods! Long ago, in the days of our ancestors, they were made taboo and hidden at the command of the gods, who wrenched them from the awful jaws of Gwahlur the king of darkness, in the birth of the world. At the command of the gods the teeth of Gwahlur were hidden; at their command they shall be brought forth again. Oh star-born goddess, give us your leave to go to the secret hiding-place of the Teeth to secure them for him whom the gods love!' 'You have my leave to go!' answered the false goddess, with an imperious gesture of dismissal that set Conan grinning again, and the priests backed out, ostrich plumes and torches rising and falling with the rhythm of their genuflexions. The gold door closed and with a moan, the goddess fell back limply on the dais. 'Conan!' she whimpered faintly. 'Conan!' 'Shhh!' he hissed through the apertures, and turning, glided from the niche and closed the panel. A glimpse past the jamb of the carven door showed him the torches receding across the great throne-room, but he was at the same time aware of a radiance that did not emanate from the torches. He was startled, but the solution presented itself instantly. An early moon had risen and its light slanted through the pierced dome which by some curious workmanship intensified the light. The shining dome of Alkmeenon was no fable, then. Perhaps its interior was of the curious whitely flaming crystal found only in the hills of the black countries. The light flooded the throne-room and seeped into the chambers immediately adjoining. But as Conan made toward the door that led into the throne-room, he was brought around suddenly by a noise that seemed to emanate from the passage that led off from the alcove. He crouched at the mouth, staring into it, remembering the clangor of the gong that had echoed from it to lure him into a snare. The light from the dome filtered only a little way into that narrow corridor, and showed him only empty space. Yet he could have sworn that he had heard the furtive pad of a foot somewhere down it. While he hesitated, he was electrified by a woman's strangled cry from behind him. Bounding through the door behind the throne, he saw an unexpected spectacle in the crystal light. The torches of the priests had vanished from the great hall outside--but one priest was still in the palace: Gwarunga. His wicked features were convulsed with fury, and he grasped the terrified Muriela by the throat, choking her efforts to scream and plead, shaking her brutally. 'Traitress!' Between his thick red lips his voice hissed like a cobra. 'What game are you playing? Did not Zargheba tell you what to say? Aye, Thutmekri told me! Are you betraying your master, or is he betraying his friends through you? Slut! I'll twist off your false head--but first I'll--' A widening of his captive's lovely eyes as she stared over his shoulder warned the huge black. He released her and wheeled, just as Conan's sword lashed down. The impact of the stroke knocked him headlong backward to the marble floor, where he lay twitching, blood oozing from a ragged gash in his scalp. Conan started toward him to finish the job--for he knew that the priest's sudden movement had caused the blade to strike flat--but Muriela threw her arms convulsively about him. 'I've done as you ordered!' she gasped hysterically. 'Take me away! Oh, please take me away!' 'We can't go yet,' he grunted. 'I want to follow the priests and see where they get the jewels. There may be more loot hidden there. But you can go with me. Where's the gem you wore in your hair?' 'It must have fallen out on the dais,' she stammered, feeling for it. 'I was so frightened--when the priests left I ran out to find you, and this big brute had stayed behind, and he grabbed me--' 'Well, go get it while I dispose of this carcass,' he commanded. 'Go on! That gem is worth a fortune itself.' She hesitated, as if loth

made

How many times the word 'made' appears in the text?