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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

snuggles

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

behalf--

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

shoe

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

off

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

deal

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

returning

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

attend

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

determination

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

near

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

chaffing

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

though

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

evades

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

were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were now running high. The gipsy band was quite splendid, and presently Barna M ritz, the second son of the mayor--a smart young man who would go far--was on his feet proposing the health of the bride. Well! Of course! One mugful was not enough to do honour to such a toast, they had to be refilled and then filled up again: wine was so plentiful and so good--not heady, but just a delicious white wine which tasted of nothing but the sweet-scented grape. Soon the bridegroom rose to respond, whereupon Feh r Jen , whose father rented the mill from my lord the Count, loudly desired that everyone should drink the health of happy, lucky Er s B la, and then, of course, the latter had to respond again. Elsa felt more and more every moment a stranger among them all. Fortunately the innate kindliness of these children of the soil prevented any chaffing remarks being made about the silence of the bride. It is always an understood thing that brides are shy and nervous, and though there had been known cases in Marosfalva where a bride had been very lively and talkative at her "maiden's farewell" it was, on the whole, considered more seemly to preserve a semi-tearful attitude, seeing that a girl on the eve of her marriage is saying good-bye to her parents and to her home. The bridegroom's disgraceful conduct was tacitly ignored: it could not be resented or even commented on without quarrelling with Er s B la, and that no one was prepared to do. You could not eat a man's salt and drink his wine and then knock him on the head, which it seemed more than one lad--who had fancied himself in love with beautiful Kapus Elsa--was sorely inclined to do. Kapus Benk , in his invalid's chair, sat some distance away from his daughter, the other side of Klara Goldstein. Elsa could not even exchange glances with him or see whether he had everything he wanted. Thus she seemed cut off from everyone she cared for; only Andor was near her, and of Andor she must not even think. She tried not to meet his gaze, tried hard not to feel a thrill of pleasure every time that she became actively conscious of his presence beside her. And yet it was good to feel that he was there, she had a sense that she was being protected, that things could not go very wrong while he was near. CHAPTER XVII "I am here to see that you be kind to her." Pater Bonif cius came in at about four o'clock to remind all these children of their duty to God. To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good God for all His gifts. The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six. Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same sturdy lads, led the procession out of the school-house, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons. The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to B la, and voices, hoarse with merriment, proffered the traditional "_Eg ss gire!_" (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street. Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave. Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside B la during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground. As the crowd passed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white shirt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to B la--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and B la for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally. Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa. "Your good health, my dear Elsa!" she said indifferently. After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else. A little nervously she began toying with her parasol. "The glass is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow," she said more pointedly. "I hope so," said Elsa softly. Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that B la was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other. "May the devil! . . ." began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. "What kind of flea has bitten your bride, B la, I should like to know?" "Flea?" said B la with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. "Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove," he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, "you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting." "I can see that Klara is waiting," replied Elsa calmly, "but I don't know what she can be waiting for." She was as white as the linen of her shift, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered. But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion. Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastisement--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow. "You don't know what Klara is waiting for?" asked B la, with an evil sneer; "why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast." A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa passed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly: "Since Klara does not go to our church, B la, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast." B la swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol. "But I tell you . . ." began B la, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fianc e, "I tell you that . . ." Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: "What will you tell your fianc e, man? Come! What is it that you want to tell her on the eve of her wedding day?" "What's that to you?" retorted B la. In this land where tempers run high, and blood courses hotly through the veins, a quarrel swiftly begun like this more often than not ends in tragedy. On Andor's face, in his menacing eyes, was writ the determination to kill if need be; in that of B la there was the vicious snarl of an infuriated dog. Klara Goldstein was far too shrewd and prudent to allow her name to be mixed up in this kind of quarrel. Her reputation in the village was not an altogether unblemished one; by a scandal such as would result from a fight between these two men and for such a cause she might hopelessly jeopardize her chances in life, even with her own people. Her own common sense, too, of which she had a goodly share, told her at the same time that the game was not worth the candle: the satisfaction of being asked to the most important wedding in the village, and there queening it with her fashionable clothes and with the bridegroom's undivided attention over a lot of stupid village folk, would not really compensate her for the scandal that was evidently brewing in the minds of Andor and of Elsa. So she preferred for the nonce to play the part of outraged innocence, a part which she further emphasized by the display of easy-going kindliness. She placed one of her daintily-gloved hands on B la's arm, she threw him a look of understanding and of indulgence, she cast a provoking glance on Andor and one of good-humoured contempt on Elsa, then she said lightly: "Never mind, B la! I can see that our little Elsa is a trifle nervy to-day; she does me more honour than I deserve by resenting your great kindness to me. But bless you, my good B la! I don't mind. I am used to jealousies: the petty ones of my own sex are quite endurable; it is when you men are jealous that we poor women often have to suffer. Leopold Hirsch, who is courting me, you know, is so madly jealous at times. He scarce can bear anyone to look at me. As if I could help not being plain, eh?" Then she turned with a smile to Elsa. "I don't think, my dear," she said dryly, "that you are treating B la quite fairly. He won't let you suffer from his jealousies; why should you annoy him with yours?" Another glance through her long, dark lashes on both the men, and Klara Goldstein turned to go. But before she could take a step toward the door, B la's masterful hand was on her wrist. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Going, my good B la," she replied airily, "going. What else can I do? I am not wanted here now, or later at your feast; but there are plenty in this village and around it who will make me welcome, and their company will be more pleasing to me, I assure you, than that of your friends. We thought of having some tarok[5] this evening. Leopold will be with us, and the young Count is coming. He loves a gamble, and is most amusing when he is in the mood. So I am going where I shall be most welcome, you see." [Footnote 5: A game of cards--the source of much gambling in that part of Europe.] She tried to disengage her wrist, but he was holding her with a tight, nervous grip. "You are not going to do anything of the sort," he muttered hoarsely; "she is daft, I tell you. Stay here, can't you?" "Not I," she retorted, with a laugh. "Enough of your friends' company, my good B la, is as good as a feast. Look at Elsa's face! And Andor's! He is ready to eat me, and she to freeze the marrow in my bones. So farewell, my dear man; if you want any more of my company," she added pointedly, "you know where to get it." She had succeeded in freeing her wrist, and the next moment was standing under the lintel of the door, the afternoon sun shining full upon her clinging gown, her waving feathers and the gew-gaws which hung round her neck. For a moment she stood still, blinking in the glare, her hands, which trembled a little from the emotion of the past little scene, fumbled with her parasol. B la turned like a snarling beast upon his fianc e. "Ask her to stop," he cried savagely. "Ask her to stop, I tell you!" "Keep your temper, my good B la," said Klara over her shoulder to him, with a laugh; "and don't trouble about me. I am used to tantrums at home. Leo is a terror when he has a jealous fit, but it's nothing to me, I assure you! His rage leaves me quite cold." "But this sort of nonsense does not leave me cold," retorted B la, who by now was in a passion of fury; "it makes my blood boil, I tell you. What I've said, I've said, and I'm not going to let any woman set her will up against mine, least of all the woman who is going to be my wife. Whether you go or stay, Klara, is your affair, but Elsa will damn well have to ask you to stay, as I told her to do; she'll have to do as I tell her, or . . ." "Or what, B la?" interposed Andor quietly. B la threw him a dark and sullen look, like an infuriated bull that pauses just before it is ready to charge. "What is it to you?" he muttered savagely. "Only this, my friend," replied Andor, who seemed as calm as the other was heated with passion, "only this: that I courted and loved Elsa when she was younger and happier than she is now, and I am not going to stand by and see her bullied and brow-beaten by anyone. Understand?" "Take care, B la," laughed Klara maliciously; "your future wife's old sweetheart might win her from you yet." "Take care of what?" shouted B la in unbridled rage. He faced Andor, and his one sinister eye shot a glance of deadly hatred upon him. "Let me tell you this, my friend, Lakatos Andor. I don't know where you have sprung from to-day, or why you have chosen to-day to do it . . . and it's nothing to me. But understand that I don't like your presence here, and that I did not invite you to come, and that therefore you have no business to be here, seeing that I pay for the feast. And understand too that I'll trouble my future wife's sweetheart to relieve her of his presence in future, or there'll be trouble. And you may take that from me, as my last word, my friend. Understand?" "What an ass you are, B la!" came as a parting shot from Klara, who had succeeded in opening her parasol, and now stood out in the open, her face and shoulders in shadow, looking the picture of coolness and of good-temper. "Andor," she added, with a pleasing smile to the young man, "you know your way to Ign cz Goldstein's. Father and I will be pleased to see you there at any time. The young Count will be there to-night, and we'll have some tarok. Farewell, B la," she continued, laughing merrily. "Don't worry, my good man, it's not worth losing your temper about trifles on the eve of your wedding-day. And bless your eyes! I don't mind." Then she swept a mock curtsy to Elsa. "Farewell, my pretty one. Good luck to you in your new life." She nodded and was gone. Her rippling laugh, with its harsh, ironical ring was heard echoing down the village street. "Call her back!" shouted B la savagely, turning on his fianc e. She looked him straight in that one eye which was so full of menace, and said with meek but firm obstinacy: "I will not." "Call her back," he exclaimed, "you . . ." He was almost choking with rage, and now he raised his clenched fist and brandished it in her face. "Call her back, or I'll . . ." But already Andor was upon him, had seized him by collar and wrist. He was as livid as the other man was crimson, but his eyes glowed with a fury at least as passionate. "And I tell you," he said, speaking almost in a whisper, very slowly and very calmly, but with such compelling power of determination that B la, taken unawares, half-choked with the grip on his throat, and in agonized pain with the rough turn on his wrist, was forced to cower before him, "I tell you that if you dare touch her . . . Look here, my friend," he continued, more loudly, "just now you said that you didn't know where I'd sprung from to-day, or why I chose to-day in which to do it. Well! Let me tell you then. God in Heaven sent me, do you see? He sent me to be here so as to see that no harm come to Elsa through marrying a brute like you. You have shown me the door, and I don't want to eat your salt again and to take your hospitality, for it would choke me, I know . . . but let me tell you this much, that if you bully Elsa . . . if you don't make her happy . . . if you are not kind to her . . . I'll make you regret it to your dying day." He had gradually relaxed his hold on B la's throat and wrist, and now the latter was able to free himself altogether, and to readjust his collar and the set of his coat. For a moment it almost seemed as if he felt ashamed and repentant. But his obstinate and domineering temper quickly got the better of this softened mood. "You'll make me regret it, will you?" he retorted sullenly. "You think that you will be allowed to play the guardian angel here, eh? with all your fine talk of God in Heaven, which I am inclined to think even the Pater would call blasphemy. I know what's at the back of your mind, my friend, don't you make any mistake about that." "You know what's at the back of my mind?" queried Andor, with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said B la, with a return to his former swagger, "that you have been saying to yourself this past half-hour: 'Oho! but Elsa is not married yet! The vows are not yet spoken, and until they are I still have my chance.' That's what you have been saying to yourself, eh, Mr. Guardian Angel?" "You d----d liar!" "Oh! insulting me won't help you, my friend. And I am not going to let you provoke me into a fight, and kill me perhaps, for no doubt that is what you would like to do. I am not going to give Elsa up to you, you need not think it; and you can't take her from me, you can't make her break her solemn promise to me, without covering her with a disgrace from which she would never recover. You know what happened when Bak Mariska broke off her marriage on the eve of her wedding-day, just because Lajos had got drunk once or twice? Though her mother whipped her for her obstinacy, and her father broke his stick across her shoulders, the whole countryside turned against her. They all had to leave the village, for no one would speak to Mariska. A scandal such as that the ignorant peasants round about here will never forgive. Mariska ultimately drowned herself in the Maros: when she no longer could stand the disgrace that pursued her everywhere. When you thought that to make a girl break off her engagement the day before her wedding was such an easy matter, you had not thought of all that, had you, my friend?" "And when you thought of frightening me by all that nonsensical talk," retorted Andor quietly, "you had not thought perhaps that there are other lands in the world besides Hungary, and that I am not quite such an ignorant peasant as those whom you choose to despise. But you have been wasting your breath and your temper. I am not here to try and persuade Elsa into doing what she would think wrong; but I am here to see that at least you be kind to her." "Pshaw!" ejaculated B la, with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "Oh! you need not imagine that I wouldn't know how you treated her. I would know soon enough. I tell you," he continued, with slow and deliberate emphasis, "that what you do to her I shall know. I shall know if you bully her, I shall know if you make her unhappy. I shall know--and God help you in that case!--if you are not kind to her. Just think in future when you speak a rough word to her that Lakatos Andor will hear you and make you pay for every syllable. Think when you browbeat her that Lakatos Andor can see you! For I _will_ see you, I tell you, in spite of your turning me out of your house, in spite of your fences and your walls. So just you ask her pardon now for your roughness, kiss her little hand and take her to vespers. But take this from me, my friend, that if you ever dare raise your hand against your wife I'll pay you out for it, so help me God!" He had sworn the last oath with solemn earnestness. Now he turned to Elsa and took her cold little hand in his and kissed her trembling finger-tips, then, without another look on the man whom he hated with such an overwhelming and deadly hatred, he turned on his heel and fled precipitately from the room. B la stood sullen and silent for a moment after he had gone. Wrath was still heating his blood so that the veins in his forehead stood up like cords. But he was not only wrathful, he also felt humiliated and ashamed. He had been cowed and overmastered in the presence of Elsa. His swagger and domineering ways had availed him nothing. Andor had threatened him and he had not had the pluck or the presence of mind to stand up to that meddling, interfering peasant. Now it was too late to do anything; the thoughts of retaliation which would come to his mind later on had not yet had the time to mature. All that he knew was that he hated Andor and would get even with him some day; for Elsa he felt no hatred, only a great wrath that she should have witnessed his humiliation and that her obstinacy should have triumphed against his will. The same pride in her and the same loveless desire was still in him. He did not hate her, but he meant to make her suffer for what he had just gone through. To him matrimony meant the complete subjection of the woman to the will of her lord; for every rebellion, for every struggle against that subjection she must be punished in accordance with the gravity of her fault. Elsa had caused him to be humiliated, and it was his firm resolve to humiliate her before many hours had gone by. Already a plan was forming in his brain; the quietude of vespers would, he thought, help him to complete it. Outside, the lads and maids were loudly demanding the appearance of the bride and bridegroom: the vesper bell had long ago ceased its compelling call. Er s B la offered his silent fianc e his arm. She took it without hesitation, and together they walked across the square to the church. CHAPTER XVIII "I must punish her." The little village inn kept by Ign cz Goldstein was not more squalid, not more dark and stuffy, than are the village inns of most countries in Europe. Klara did her best to keep the place bright and clean, which was no easy matter when the roads were muddy and men brought in most of the mud of those roads on their boots, and deposited it on the freshly-washed floors. The tap-room was low and narrow and dark. Round the once whitewashed walls there were rows of wooden benches with narrow trestle tables in front of them. Opposite the front door, on a larger table, were the bottles of wine and silvorium,[6] the jars of tobacco and black cigars, which a beneficent government licensed Ign cz Goldstein the Jew to sell to the peasantry. [Footnote 6: A highly alcoholic, very raw gin-like spirit distilled from a special kind of plum.] The little room obtained its daylight mainly from the street-door when it was open, for the one tiny window--on the right as you entered--was not constructed to open, and its dulled glass masked more of daylight than it allowed to filtrate through. Opposite the window a narrow door led into a couple of living rooms, the first of which also had direct access to the street. The tap-room itself was always crowded and always busy, the benches round the walls were always occupied, and Klara and her father were never allowed to remain idle for long. She dispensed the wine and the silvorium, and made herself agreeable to the guests. Ign cz saw to the tobacco and the cigars. Village women in Hungary never frequent the public inn: when they do, it is because they have sunk to the lowest depths of degradation: a woman in drink is practically an unknown sight in the land. Klara herself, though her ways with the men were as free and easy as those of her type and class usually are, would never have dreamed of drinking with any of them. This evening she was unusually busy. While the wedding feast was going on lower down in the village, a certain number of men who liked stronger fare than what is usually provided at a "maiden's farewell" dance, as well as those who had had no claim to be invited, strolled into the tap-room for a draught of silvorium, a gossip with the Jewess, or a game of tarok if any were going. Ign cz Goldstein himself was fond of a game. Like most of his race, his habits were strictly sober. As he kept a cool head, he usually won; and his winnings at tarok made a substantial addition to the income which he made by selling spirits and tobacco. Leopold Hirsch, who kept the village grocery store, was also an inveterate player, and, like Goldstein, a very steady winner. But it was not the chance of a successful gamble which brought him so often to the tap-room. For years now he had dangled round Klara's fashionable skirts, and it seemed as if at last his constancy was to be rewarded. While she was younger--and was still of surpassing beauty--she had had wilder flights of ambition than those which would lead her to rule over a village grocery store: during those times she had allowed Leopold Hirsch to court her, without giving him more than very cursory encouragement. As the years went on, however, and her various admirers from Arad proved undesirous to go to the length of matrimony, she felt more kindly disposed toward Leo, who periodically offered her his heart and hand, and the joint ownership of the village grocery store. She had looked into her little piece of mirror rather more closely of late than she had done hitherto, and had discovered two or three ominous lines round her fine, almond-shaped eyes, and noted that her nose showed of late a more marked tendency to make close acquaintance with her chin. Then she began to ponder, and to give the future more serious consideration than she had ever done before. She

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were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

slug

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

seeking

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

bitter

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

gesture

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

sympathetic

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

feeling

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

pity

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

yank

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

assured

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

elderly

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

trix

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

even

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

great

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

puff

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

somewhere

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

after

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

marshall

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

answered

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

were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

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were perilously few. But more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost, and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a door opened and closed. "At last!" said the general, under his breath. But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no mistaking the look on his face. "How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult. "The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--" began the secretary. "He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted. "I regret--" "What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?" demanded the general. "The governor has left town." The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window recalled him. "Where has he gone?" "He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a moment of wretched irresolution. The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful emotion. "Impossible!" he cried. "The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary haltingly. The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder. "You have the governor's decision?" he asked. "Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily. There was a moment's silence. "What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural. "He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in this case--" A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him. "My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him. He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he whispered, slipping his arms about her. "Oh, father--father--" she sobbed. "We will go home," said the general. He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder, expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that dapper young man had stolen from the room. "Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth. He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been foredoomed to failure from the very beginning. "Father?" she gasped. "Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness. "Is there nothing more?" "Nothing, but to go home." Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an infinitesimal part of her suffering. "The governor has refused to interfere?" "You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply. "And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all our prayers--" "Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested. "Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--" "I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently. "Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?" "Yes." For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped about her father's arm. "I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?" The general did not trust himself to answer her. "We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge Belknap had not been called away?" General Herbert shook his head. "And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we won't now, will we?" "My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly. "How shall we ever tell him!" "I will go alone," said the general. "No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden feverish energy. "You need not hurry," her father assured her. "But look at your watch!" she entreated. "We have half an hour," he said. "You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief silence. "Nothing, dear." Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount Hope. "We are home, dear," he said gently. [Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE LAST LONG DAY A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John--" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak--I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier--" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--" "Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling--good night--" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John--" "As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow--to-day--" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good night." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse. He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then he would somehow stand in imminent peril. He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General Herbert's stalwart figure. "He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!" His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do much in the six hours that remained to him. He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed. Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him, slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was safe! Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of seven months before. As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the two men stood facing each other in the darkness. Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his confession. How was he to deal with the situation? "There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath. There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets for a fresh match. "Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could command himself. Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth. "Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered. He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near. "Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating Gilmore had administered. "Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone." "I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said Montgomery, clearing his throat. "No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town." "Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh. "No, he's gone for good." "Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!" "You won't have to use it." "I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery. "I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham. His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the handy-man's slouching figure. "I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying shake of the head. "Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham. It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no purpose. "Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used, just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully, as he looked off across the bridge. "I guess not, Joe," said Langham. His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him? Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by which he could best safeguard his life? "Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly demanded. "Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause. "Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked. "Yes." "Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's been turned loose." "Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case." "That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the handy-man. Langham caught the tone of relief. "I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!" He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he had known. "When did you get in?" asked Langham. "I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!" "Have you seen any one?" "No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the bridge. "I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily. "The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the bridge. Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks. "Yes, way up!" he answered. As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice. "Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from him. "You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched. The handy-man moved a little to one side. "Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno! Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere; Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge slanting shoulders. "Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the darkness ahead of them. "It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't used to this bridge like me." "Do you always come this way?" asked Langham. "Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or summer," said the handy-man. "One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said Langham with a shudder. "Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail." "Can you swim?" asked Langham. "Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond. Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace. "Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham. "Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery. Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the cinder ballast of the road-bed. "Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light. "Wait!" said Langham imperiously. "What for?" demanded Montgomery. "The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge," began Langham. "Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently from him. "Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give weight to his words. Montgomery rounded up his shoulders. "Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel. "Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off. Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up the handy-man's hulking figure. Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence; he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony. As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph Montgomery, junior. At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.

rightful

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

finish

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what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

poles

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

was

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

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what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

adventurer

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

abort

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

files

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

triton

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

answer

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

mechanically

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

saying

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

dislocates

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

trails

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

tripped

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

distance

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

doctor

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

caresses

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

floor

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

plug

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

what happened to the crew. Before it happens to us. PETERS (weakly) I'll get back to the log. But on the bridge, I won't go back, back in there... MILLER Thanks. Peters exits. STARCK Justin said something about, "The dark inside me..." What did he mean? WEIR It means nothing. MILLER Is that your "expert opinion?" The only answer we've had out of you is "I don't know." WEIR Justin just tried to kill himself. The man is clearly insane. DJ How would you explain your own behavior? WEIR What? STARCK On the bridge. You said "it" wanted you. Weir glances at Justin... INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY -- POV OF CLAIRE But it's not Justin in the tank. It's his wife CLAIRE, naked, wet, dead. Weir stares at her. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GRAVITY COUCH BAY WEIR I said that? DJ Yes. You did. Weir blinks. Justin floats in the grav couch. Weir turns back to the others. WEIR I don't remember saying that. (covers with a joke) Maybe I'm insane, too. Weir exits. INT. EVENT HORIZON -- GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller follows Weir out of the Gravity Couch Bay. MILLER I want to know what caused that noise. I want to know why one of my crew tried to throw himself out of the airlock. WEIR Thermal changes in the hull could have caused the metal to expand and contract very suddenly, causing reverberations -- MILLER (exploding) That's bullshit and you know it! You built this fucking ship and all I've heard from you is bullshit! WEIR What do you want me to say? MILLER You said this ship creates a gateway... WEIR Yes... MILLER To what? Where did this ship go? Where did you send it? WEIR I don't know... MILLER Where has it been for the past seven years? WEIR I don't know... MILLER The "Other Place," what is that...? WEIR I DON'T KNOW! (beat, calm again) I don't know. There's a lot of things going on here that I don't understand. Truth takes time. MILLER That's exactly what we don't have, Doctor. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller moves through the maze of the ship, heading for the Bridge. As he reaches a junction, he hears... ...A DISTANT CRY... VOICE (O.S.) Don't leave me...! Miller wheels like a cat, staring wildly down the branching corridors. Nothing. He is alone. Miller leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, rests his head in his hands. EXT. NEPTUNE - MODEL The grotesque ship continues it's orbit as the moon Triton eclipses the sun. Darkness swallows all. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY DJ enters, checks Justin's display. MILLER (O.S.) Any change? DJ turns, surprised. Miller sits, barely visible in the dark. DJ No. No change. (beat) I've analyzed Justin's blood samples. There's no evidence of excessive levels of carbon dioxide. Or anything else out of ordinary. A grim LAUGH from Miller. MILLER Of course not. Justin just climbed into the airlock because he felt like it. Just one of those things. (beat) I swore I'd never lose another man. I came close today. Real close. DJ "Another man?" Who? Miller nods, pulls his service medal from beneath his jumpsuit. MILLER It was on the Goliath. There was this bosun, Corrick, a young guy, a lot like Justin. Edmund Corrick, from Decatur, Georgia. He got caught when the pressure doors sealed, one closed on his arm. Severed it at the wrist. The pain of that must have been... He passed out and... Miller trails off. DJ waits patiently. Finally: MILLER I, I tried to go back for him, to save him, but I couldn't get to him in time. The fire... Have you ever seen fire in zero-gravity? It's like a liquid, it slides over everything. It was like a wave breaking over him, a wave of fire. And then he was gone. (beat) I never told anyone until now. But this ship knew, DJ. It knows about the Goliath, it knows about Corrick. It knows our secrets. It knows what we're afraid of. (beat, wan smile) And now you're going to tell me it's carbon dioxide. DJ No. Miller sees something in DJ's expression. MILLER What is it? DJ I've been listening to the transmission. And I think Houston made a mistake in the translation. MILLER Go on. DJ plays the recording again. Stops it abruptly. DJ They thought it said, "Liberatis me," "Save me," but it's not "me." It's "tutemet:" "Save yourself." MILLER It's not a distress call. It's a warning. DJ It gets worse. Miller stares at him. DJ It's very hard to make out, but listen to this final part. He plays the recording again. DJ Do you hear it? Right there. MILLER Hear what? DJ It sounds like "ex infera:" "ex," from; "infera," the ablative case of "inferi." "Hell." MILLER "Save yourself. From Hell." (beat) What are you saying, are you saying that this ship is possessed? DJ No. I don't believe in that sort of thing. (beat) But if Dr. Weir is right, this ship has passed beyond the boundaries of our universe, of reality. Who knows where this ship has been... What it's seen... (beat) And what it's brought back with it. DJ looks at Miller. He does not have an answer. The intercom CRACKLES: COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Captain Miller, we're ready to repressurize the Clark. MILLER (into intercom) On my way. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller stands in his EVA suit in the darkened bridge. He twists a manual valve. MILLER Alright, Cooper. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper looks at Smith. COOPER Cross your fingers. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE A moment later, mist flows from the vents into the bridge, filling it with atmosphere. Miller watches the pressure rise on his suit gauge. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) It's holding... She's holding...! COOPER (O.S.) (radio) We're still venting trace gasses, gimme twenty minutes to plug the hole. MILLER You got it, Coop. Miller removes his helmet. Breathes deep. MILLER Back in business. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Peters sits in front of the screen. The log is still distorted. Frustrated, she types in a series of instructions. Get to her feet. PETERS You got any coffee? STARCK It's cold. PETERS I don't care. Behind Peters, the process refines, accelerates... pieces coming together like a jigsaw... Peters turns around. Sees the screen. The coffee slips from her hand to the floor. PETERS (tiny voice) Starck... Starck turns, sees the screen. PETERS Sweet Jesus. Miller... MILLER! CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller, Starck, DJ watch the video. Peters turns away, miserable. Unable to watch... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE THE VIDEO SCREEN still distorted by static and roll, but finally lucid: FOUR ORIGINAL CREW of the Event Horizon. On the Bridge. ONE MAN dislocates his shoulder with a WET POPPING sound as he shoves his arm down his own throat. Blood bubbles from his nose. With a SHUCKING sound, he pulls his stomach out his mouth... Behind him, a MAN and WOMAN fuck, covered with blood. She bites through his neck. His head lolls to the other side. She buries her face in the torn flesh as he thrusts into her again and again... Presiding over them, KILPACK. His eyes are bloody holes. His hands reach out in offering. In the palms of his hands, his eyes. Kilpack opens his mouth and speaks with an INHUMAN VOICE. KILPACK Liberatis tutemet ex infera... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller switches off the video. No one says anything. MILLER We're leaving. WEIR You can't, your orders are specific... MILLER "...to rescue the crew and salvage the ship." The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them. And now it's killing us. WEIR You're insane. You've lost your mind. MILLER Maybe you're right. But it's still my command, and I have leeway to abort when I feel there is an unacceptable threat to my crew. And I think there is. (beat) Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon's computers. Coop, Smith, finish moving the CO2 scrubbers back onto the Clark. WEIR (stammering) Don't... don't do this... MILLER It's done. CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Peters enters, carrying heavy CO2 scrubbers. Smith stops her. SMITH What's going on, sweethearts? PETERS CO2 scrubbers for the Clark. Miller pulled the plug on the mission. Smith smiles. SMITH About goddam time. Sequence omitted from original script. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Weir follows Miller down the Corridor. WEIR What about my ship? MILLER We will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been destroyed. (beat) Fuck this ship. WEIR You... You can't do that! MILLER Watch me. Miller turns to walk away. Weir grabs Miller, wheeling him around, almost frenzied. WEIR You can't kill her, I won't let you! I lost her once, I will not lose her again...! Miller shoves Weir back into the wall. The two stare at each other. Adversaries... The lights cut to emergency lighting. STARCK (O.S.) (intercom) Miller, come in ... Miller finds the intercom: MILLER Starck, what the hell is going on? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck peers at the Engineering board: STARCK (into intercom) We just lost main power again. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS Miller and Weir are barely visible in the darkness. MILLER Goddammit! Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship. He releases the intercom. Weir's voice is a WHISPER as he backs into the shadows. WEIR You can't leave. She won't let you. MILLER Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, doctor, or you'll find yourself looking for a ride home. Weir is swallowed by the darkness. WEIR (O.S.) I am home. REGULAR LIGHTING snaps on... Miller looks around. Dr. Weir has vanished. MILLER Weir? WEIR! He slams the intercom: MILLER All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and restrained. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck gathers all the files and disks. Shuts down the consoles, one by one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Smith and Peters finish removing CO2 scrubbers from panels in the walls. SMITH Let's go, let's go, this place freaks me out... PETERS Last one. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Peters follows Smith down the First Containment towards the Main Access Corridor, carrying the last case of scrubbers. She begins to lag behind. A GIGGLE echoes down the First Containment. PETERS (whisper) Denny? She turns back to the Second Containment... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT POV PETERS A SMALL FIGURE dashes through the darkness in the Second Containment. Denny...? INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT PETERS Smith. Peters turns, but Smith is already out of sight. She hesitates. Moves back towards Second Containment. Again, Peters hears the GIGGLE of a child. The SCRAPE of metal on metal. She slowly moves forward... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT ...into the darkness of the Second Containment. Peters sees an open access panel. She looks inside. PETERS' POV - ACCESS DUCT A narrow tube, vanishing into darkness. A YOUNG CHILD'S VOICE echoes from far away: DENNY (O.S.) Mommy... PETERS ducks her head and enters the access duct. PETERS Denny...? CUT TO: INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE Miller sits at Justin's engineering position. Flips a series of switches... EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL Cooper works on the patch as the ship's running lights come on in sequence... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - BRIDGE The bridge lights flicker, illuminate... MILLER (to his ship) Thank you. SMITH (O.S.) (radio) Captain, we got a problem. MILLER Now what? CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS SMITH AND MILLER SMITH She was right behind me, I turn around, she's gone. She could be anywhere. MILLER Alright. Prep the Clark for launch. I'll find her. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT Peters moves through the duct. Reaches a junction. Anything could be with her, there in the dark. A child's WHISPER, too faint for words. Peters turns... Behind her, FOREGROUND, a YOUNG CHILD dashes across the corridor. Peters turns back. Too late to see. Again, the child's WHISPER draws her onward. PETERS Denny? Denny, come to Mommy... FAINT LAUGHTER is her only answer. She follows the sound, now climbing into a vertical shaft that takes her higher and higher... PETERS Hold on, Denny, Mommy's coming... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - CATWALK Peters pulls herself up from the vertical shaft onto a catwalk that snakes between huge oily machinery, just in time to see... A SMALL CHILD running, disappearing into the gloom ahead. PETERS Denny? She runs forward into a junction. The lights flicker red. PETERS Denny...? DENNY Mommy... Her son can barely be seen in the flickering darkness ahead. PETERS You can walk... Denny, you can walk... oh, my baby... DENNY Wanna show you, Mommy, wanna show you something... He reaches his arms out to her... Peters steps forward, reaching for her son... ...falling into an open access hatch, hidden in the dark... INT. DENNY'S DUCT - (VERTICAL TUBE) ...a twenty meter drop... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters hits hard, lies before the Core, an offering of flesh and blood. Her legs twist beneath her, shattered; blood pools around her head. Her chest heaves: still alive. PETERS (bloody gasp) Denny... INT. EVENT HORIZON - DENNY'S DUCT - TUBE SECTION Denny peers down from the top of the shaft and GIGGLES. CLAPS his hands in childlike glee. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT Weir wanders into First Containment, brooding. WEIR (to himself) I won't. I won't leave. This is my ship. INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir enters the Second Containment. Freezes as he sees... Peters body lying twisted and broken before the Core. WEIR Oh no. Peters...? He rushes to Peters. Reaches out to touch her but pulls his hand back. Her eyes are black, eight-ball hemorrhage darkening the irises. She is dead. WEIR Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that... CLAIRE (O.S.) Billy. Weir looks up from Peters' corpse. CLAIRE stands before the Core. She is naked. Her skin is pale and beautiful and cold and wet. Her hair hangs in her face, covering her milk-white eyes... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT Claire stands naked before the bathroom mirror. Behind her, the tub steams... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT - (SEX AND SUICIDE INTERCUT) Weir stares at Claire in shock. She walks to him. Slowly. She stops in front of him. Her arms hang at her sides. He must reach for her. He does, putting his hands on her hips. He slides from his chair to the floor to his knees. He presses his face to her pale belly and cries. SOBS wrack his body... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and in the bathroom, she clutches Weir's straight-razor... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She reaches down. Slowly, her arms cradle his head. She slides down on him. Straddles him. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire slips into the steaming water... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT He raises his head to her breasts. His eyes, closed. She remains unnaturally still, only her hips rocking back and forth. Weir's mouth opens, GASPS as he enters her... INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...and the razor bites her skin... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT She caresses his face. Lifts his face to hers. Her mouth is slack. Her hair hangs in front of her eyes. INT. STUDIO APARTMENT ...Claire floats dead in the red water, eyes open, hair billowing around her head like a halo... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Weir gazes up at her, transfixed. He takes her hand and raises it to his face. She caresses his cheek. And reaches for his eyes... INT. EVENT HORIZON - FIRST CONTAINMENT A MUFFLED SCREAM rips through the Second Containment Seal. It begins as a human sound and ends as something else, an alien CRY of rage. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS The CRY echoes down the Main Corridor. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ packs up blood samples. He raises his head at the sound of the CRY. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Starck GASPS as the CRY resounds through the bridge. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller turns in the direction of the CRY. He begins to move down the Corridor, towards the source. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - HULL SECTION Cooper examines the weld on the baffle plate. It's solid. COOPER Solid as a rock. (into his radio) Hey, Smith... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK COOPER (O.S.) (intercom) Smith, clear that airlock, man, I'm coming in. SMITH Roger that. Smith carries another load of supplies. Movement out of the corner of his eye... He turns in time to see Weir disappear around a corner inside the Event Horizon. SMITH Dr. Weir! Hey, get your ass back on board! Dr. Weir! No response. Smith keys the radio. SMITH Skipper, come in... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller jogs down the Main Corridor. An INTERCOM gets his attention: SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Skipper... MILLER (into intercom) What is it, Smith? SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) I just saw Weir, I think he was messing around on the Clark. Something SPARKS and SIZZLES in the dim light, catching Miller's eye. He looks up... One of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES has been removed from the its mounting in the Corridor. MILLER Smith, get out of there... SMITH (O.S.) (intercom) Come again, Skipper? MILLER One of the explosives is missing from the corridor. I think Weir may have put it on the Clark. INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - AIRLOCK Smith's eyes open wide. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get off the Clark now and wait for me at the airlock. SMITH No, no, we just got her back together... MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Get out of there now! But Smith has already left the airlock... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS ...entering the Quarters, tearing through storage lockers. SMITH Where is it, where is it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - WITH AIRLOCKS MILLER Smith? Smith! Fuck! Miller races down the corridor towards the airlock, towards his ship... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - QUARTERS A BEEPING sound catches Smith's attention. He follows the sound to a storage compartment. Rifles through it. SMITH I gotcha... I gotcha... The BEEPS are coming closer and closer together. Smith grabs a duffel. SMITH I gotcha. Opens it. He sees the EXPLOSIVE CHARGE from the Event Horizon even as the BEEPS become a steady TONE. He closes his eyes and SIGHS... INT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLOSION WHITE LIGHT. A MASSIVE EXPLOSION... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller enters the docking bay even as a HUGE BLAST knocks him back. MILLER NOOO! Safety doors close, sealing off the airlock and preventing loss of pressure. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - MODEL The SILENT EXPLOSION tears the Lewis and Clark into two pieces, spiralling away from each other and from the Event Horizon. Metal shards, like confetti, fill the space between them. EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper clings to the forward section, watching the Event Horizon recede as he tumbles into space. His FRENZIED BREATHING is the only sound. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller gets to his feet. Stares out the window upon the wreckage of his ship, spiralling away. He hits the intercom with his forearm. MILLER DJ. The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE DJ What happened? MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Weir. He used one of the explosives from the Corridor. The door opens behind DJ. The lights go out. DJ turns... Face to face with Weir... Blood crusts Weir's cheekbones, his mouth. He has no eyes. Only clotted, empty sockets. DJ opens his mouth to SCREAM. Weir grabs DJ by the throat, cutting him off. INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER DJ, you read me? DJ does not answer. The CRASH of glass and steel resonates over the intercom. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE Too dark to see... glimpses of violent motion in the stainless steel cabinets... the sounds of STRUGGLE continue... ...then something WET... and the struggle stops. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) DJ? DJ, come in... Finally, Weir emerges from the gloom. He searches among the surgical instruments until his blood caked hands find a needle... and thread... INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK BAY NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) Miller, at the intercom. He tries another channel. MILLER Peters... INT. EVENT HORIZON - SECOND CONTAINMENT Peters body lies before the Core. The intercom CRACKLES. MILLER (O.S.) (intercom) Peters, are you there? INT. EVENT HORIZON - AIRLOCK NO. 1 - (TATTERED UMBILICUS) MILLER (growing panic) Starck, do you read me? Starck...? But it is Weir who answers. His voice sounds thick, choked with dirt. WEIR (O.S.) (intercom) I told you... She won't let you leave... MILLER Son of a bitch! Miller yanks open a storage locker full of zero-G tool. Lifts a nailgun. Chambers a round. CUT TO: EXT. LEWIS AND CLARK - EXPLODED HULL SECTION Cooper watches the Event Horizon fall farther and farther away. He checks his oxygen gauge. One tank full, one tank at half. Cooper twists his backpack around, giving him access to the oxygen tanks. He seals off his primary hose and disconnects the full tank. His gauge immediately goes to "Yellow - Reserve." Cooper points the full tank away from the Event Horizon and OPENS IT... The blast of pressurized air pushes him towards the ship, leaving the wreckage of the Lewis and Clark behind. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Miller races through the corridors to Medical... INT. EVENT HORIZON - MEDICAL/SCIENCE ...and finds DJ, suspended above the table, neatly dissected. His organs have been laid out carefully before him on the steel table. MILLER Oh my God. DJ raises his head. DJ (whisper) Please... MILLER Oh, God, DJ, what do I... how do I... DJ Please... kill... MILLER Oh God... Miller raises the nailgun with trembling hands. FIRES. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Miller approaches the door to the Bridge. It is open... INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller stands in the doorway. A figure sits at the helm. Miller aims the nailgun. MILLER Weir. The figure doesn't move. Miller slowly circles around the helm... It's Starck. Bound with wire in a sadomasochistic pose, unconscious. MILLER Hold on... Get you outta these... Miller kneels in front of her, puts down the nailgun, loosens the cords. She BREATHES in ragged gasps, opens his eyes... Then stops. She stares over Miller's shoulder like a deer caught in the headlights. Miller looks behind him... WEIR STANDS THERE, STARING WITH EYES SEWN SHUT. Miller reaches for the gun... Weir hits him, sending Miller across the bridge into a bulkhead. Weir picks up the nailgun, examines it. Miller slowly gets to his feet. MILLER Your eyes... WEIR I don't need them anymore. Where we're going, we won't need eyes to see. MILLER What are you talking about? WEIR Do you know what a singularity is, Miller? Does your mind truly fathom what a black hole is? (beat) It is NOTHING. Absolute and eternal NOTHING. And if God is Everything, then I have seen the Devil. (a dead man's grin) It's a liberating experience. With his free hand, Weir reaches for the navigation console. Flips a series of switches with gore caked fingers. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE (ENLARGED CONSOLE) The display lights up. COMPUTER Gravity drive primed. Do you wish to engage? INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE MILLER What are you doing? Weir grins as he flips the final switch. COMPUTER Gravity drive engaged. Activation in T-minus ten minutes. Miller lunges for the nailgun. Weir raises the nailgun to point at Miller's face. Miller slowly backs away. MILLER If you miss me, you'll blow out the hull. You'll die too. WEIR What makes you think I'll miss? Miller sees something out of the corner of his eye... EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Cooper. Outside, braced in the viewport bracket. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Weir spins and FIRES at Cooper. The nail lodges in the thick quartz glass. A web of cracks spreads out from the bullet, the glass SHRIEKING under the pressure. Weir takes a step towards the window, raises the gun to fire again. EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE Miller dives for the door. Before Weir can fire, EXT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE WINDOW (HANGING SECTION) the window EXPLODES outward. INT. EVENT HORIZON - BRIDGE The ship HOWLS as air rushes out, ripping Weir off his feet. Weir catches himself in the broken window, trying to pull himself back in... A monitor tears free, SMASHES into him. HE IS SUCKED OUT. Miller pulls himself through the door as it begins to shut. He is safe... STARCK (O.S.) Don't leave me! Miller turns. Starck clings to a console, barely able to resist the winds that try to suck her into the void. STARCK (gasping for air) Please... help, help me... Miller hesitates, looking from Starck back into the safety of the ship. The door continues to shut. In seconds, he will be safe. And she will be dead. Miller YELLS and rips a compressor from its mount, wedges it in the door to keep it open. He keeps one hand on the door, reaches the other hand to Starck. MILLER Give me your hand! Your hand! She does. Frost forms on their bodies as the air cools. Their veins begin to bulge, blood pulses from their noses. He YELLS with exertion... ...drags her to the door... through the door... ...as the compressor tears free, sucked into space... ...and the door SNAPS shut, missing them by a fraction. INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR TO BRIDGE Starck and Miller collapse against the door. A moment passes between them. Just happy to be breathing... ...and then the AIRLOCK KLAXON goes off. MILLER The forward airlock. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GENERIC CORRIDOR Starck and Miller race towards the Forward Airlock Bay. INT. EVENT HORIZON - FORWARD AIRLOCK BAY NO. 4 They enter, see a humanoid shape moving in the strobing light of the airlock. STARCK Weir can't be alive. MILLER Whatever was on that bridge wasn't Weir. Miller looks around for a weapon. Pulls a zero-G bolt cutter from the wall. Wields it like a bat. MILLER Stay behind me. The inner airlock door releases with a HISS. Swings open... Cooper tumbles through, clawing at his helmet. STARCK Cooper! Starck rushes to him, takes his helmet off. He SUCKS air in, COUGHS it out. COOPER Let me breathe, let me breathe... STARCK You're okay now, it's over... MILLER (sees something) It's not over. It's just starting. Starck follows Miller's gaze to a workstations's flashing display: GRAVITY DRIVE ENGAGED. ACTIVATION 00:06:43:01... MILLER Weir activated the drive. He's sending us to the Other Place. STARCK We've got to shut it down, we've got to... COOPER How? The Bridge is gone. STARCK There must be a way! What about Engineering? COOPER Can you shut it down? STARCK I don't know the process, Dr. Weir was the expert... COOPER I don't want to go where the last crew went. I'd rather be dead. MILLER BLOW THE FUCKER UP. STARCK Blow it up? MILLER We blow the Corridor. Use the foredecks as a lifeboat, separate it from the rest of the ship. We stay put... COOPER ...and the gravity drive goes where no man has gone before. CUT TO: INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY MILLER You prep the gravity couches. I'm going to manually arm those explosives. COOPER Will it work? MILLER It worked for Weir. Prep the tanks. Cooper nods, heads for the gravity couch bay. Starck follows Miller to the steel pressure door. STARCK I'll do it -- MILLER No. I'll be right back. Miller opens the door. MILLER Close it behind me. Just in case. Beat. Starck stares at Miller as if memorizing his face. STARCK Don't be long. Miller smiles wanly. The door slides shut with a dull THUNK. INT. EVENT HORIZON - MAIN ACCESS CORRIDOR - NO AIRLOCKS Miller runs down the corridor. Stops at a bulkhead coupling. Kneels down to remove the cover from an explosive charge, switch it to MANUAL detonation. Miller runs to the next coupling. Repeats the process... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck and Cooper check the gravity couches. One by one, they slide open... COOPER I'm gonna activate the emergency beacon. STARCK Hurry. Cooper exits down a ladder. Starck turns to the console, activates three gravity couches. Behind her, two begin to fill with blue gel... ...and one begins to fill with blood... the hint of dark shapes moving within... Starck doesn't see it, concentrates on the console. THUMP. THUMP. Starck turns. Sees the bloody tank. Sees something moving inside it. She slowly crosses to the tank. Peers at it... INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY (TANK) THUMP. A FACE PRESSES AGAINST THE GLASS, STARING BACK AT HER. WEIR. Bone and muscle are exposed where the skin hasn't finished forming. INT. EVENT HORIZON - GRAVITY COUCH BAY Starck SCREAMS and backs away. STARCK Cooper...! The glass BURSTS in an EXPLOSION OF BLOOD... INT. EVENT HORIZON - CORRIDOR BELOW GRAVITY COUCH BAY A corridor beneath the Gravity Couch Bay. Cooper searches through circuit panels until he finds the EMERGENCY BEACON breaker. He runs a by-pass, activating it manually. The lights begins to STROBE... DRIP. DRIP. A bloodstain spreads over his shoulder. He follows the drip to the

onward

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

written

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

voluptuous

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

class

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

irate

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

joy

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

new

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what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

alley

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

carpet

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

frightened

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

lane

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

impossible

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

taut

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

love

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

december

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

railway

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

fast

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

maddened

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

what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

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what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must hurry. She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be there. Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new world. He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering about the hall. She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her. In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her being. Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him. He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in fear. Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing. "How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" "I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal. Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation. "Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. "Yes--I have just the six months' leave." "Will you like being out there?" "I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. The country did need the civilization which he himself represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But that was not her road. Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For he had come back to her. A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction. She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to individuality? She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away? They came out of the cafe. "Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there anything we can do?" It was a dark, windy night in March. "There is nothing to do," she said. Which was the answer he wanted. "Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. "Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless night made her feel wild. They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. "It is like it was before," she said. Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one thought. "I knew I should come back," he said at length. She quivered. "Did you always love me?" she asked. The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. "I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You were always at the back of everything." She was silent with triumph, like fate. "I loved you," she said, "always." The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence. She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows. "It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited. "Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. "I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the fear--something sensual." She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could only be felt, not heard. Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel. "Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. "Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. "Yes, I love you." He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the very bottommost source of him. So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus of the fluid darkness. It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the unutterable satisfaction. They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and soughing in gusts of wind. She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with him. At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in front and on their right. But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant. "The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only by his clothes. During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. "What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism." She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. "They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and you would be the very last to allow it." Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in the least. There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, everything. Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the performance! He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next day. He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was remote from them. For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their final entry into the source of creation. She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew that if they understood the real relationship between her and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was for the time complete and final. She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness beneath. Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the world--they could not. So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. "We will sit down," he said. And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their darkened field. Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of immortality. When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they had leapt together. Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the darkness. This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, she let it look after itself. Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed supremely. She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her classes, flowering, and remote. She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she paid not the slightest attention to her study. They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their own consummate being made everything else so entirely subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the time to be absolutely their own. The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were indifferent to the actual facts. "I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which contained them. He watched her pensive, puzzled face. "I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow clouded. It piqued him rather. "Why not?" he asked. "Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. "You've got a museau, not a face," he said. "Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not satisfied. "Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" "I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." "All right," he said. He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility. They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment. They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop in a poor quarter. They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions. They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses. The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances. "Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband. So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India immediately. Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and beyond all limitation. The days went by--they were to have three weeks together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not exist. Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously: "Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau Baronin." Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, because of the dawn. Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil of unreality. [But

evil

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

accusing

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

assume

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

under

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

confidential

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

direz

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

brings

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

against

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

another

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whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

father

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

sorry

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

morning

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

hoped

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

jeopardizes

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

precious

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

leads

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

going

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

breadth

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

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whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

displease

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

whatever. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING RUMOURS. When Jucundus rose next morning, and heard the news, he considered it to be more satisfactory than he could have supposed possible. He was a zealous imperialist, and a lover of tranquillity, a despiser of the natives and a hater of the Christians. The Christians had suffered enough to vindicate the Roman name, to deter those who were playing at Christianity, and to show that the people of Sicca had their eyes about them. And the mob had received a severe lesson too; and the cause of public order had triumphed, and civic peace was re-established. His anxiety, too, about Agellius had terminated, or was terminating. He had privately denounced him to the government, come to an understanding with the military authorities, and obtained the custody of him. He had met him at the very door to which the boy Firmian brought him, with an apparitor of the military staff (or what answered to it), and had clapped him into prison in an underground cellar in which he kept damaged images, and those which had gone out of fashion, and were otherwise unsaleable. He was not at all sorry, by some suffering, and by some fright, to aid the more potent incantation which Callista was singing in his ears. He did not, however, at all forget Juba s hint, and was careful not to overdo the rack-and-gridiron dodge, if we may so designate it; yet he thought just a flavour or a thought of the inconveniences which the profession of Christianity involved might be a salutary reflection in the midst of the persuasives which the voice and eyes of Callista would kindle in his heart. There was nothing glorious or heroic in being confined in a lumber cellar, no one knowing anything about it; and he did not mean to keep him there for ever. As the next day wore on towards evening, rumour brought a piece of news which he was at first utterly unable to credit, and which for the moment seemed likely to spoil the appetite which promised so well for his evening repast. He could hardly believe his ears when he was told that Callista was in arrest on a charge of Christianity, and at first it made him look as black as some of those Egyptian gods which he had on one shelf of his shop. However, he rallied, and was very much amused at the report. The imprisonment indeed was a fact, account for it as one could; but who _could_ account for it? Varium et mutabile: who could answer for the whims and fancies of womankind? If she had fallen in love with the owl of Minerva, or cut off her auburn tresses, or turned rope-dancer, there might have been some shrugging of shoulders, but no one would have tried to analyze the motive; but so much his profound sagacity enabled him to see, that, if there was one thing more than another likely to sicken Agellius of Christianity, it was to find one who was so precious to him suffering from the suspicion of it. It was bad enough to have suffered one s self in such a cause; still he could conceive, he was large-minded enough to grant, that Agellius might have some secret satisfaction in the antagonist feeling of resentment and obstinacy which that suffering might engender: but it was carrying matters too far, and no comfort in any point of view, to find Callista, his beloved, the object of a similar punishment. It was all very well to profess Christianity as a matter of sentiment, mystery, and singularity; but when it was found to compromise the life or limbs of another, and that other Callista, why it was plain that Agellius would be the very first to try and entreat the wayward girl to keep her good looks for him, and to be loyal to the gods of her country; and he chuckled over the thought, as others have done in other states of society, of a love-scene or a marriage being the termination of so much high romance and fine acting. However, the next day Aristo came down to him himself, and gave him an account at once more authentic and more extended on the matter which interested him. Callista had been called up before the tribunal, and had not been discharged, but remanded. The meaning of it was as obscure as ever; Aristo could give no account of it; it almost led him to believe in the evil eye; some unholy practices, some spells such as only potent wizards know, some deplorable delusion or hallucination, had for the time got the mastery of his sister s mind. No one seemed quite to know how she had found her way into the hands of the officers; but there she was, and the problem was how to get her out of them. However, whatever mystery, whatever anxiety, attached to the case, it was only still more urgent to bring the matter home to Agellius without delay. If time went on before the parties were brought together, she might grow more obstinate, and kindle a like spirit in him. Oh that boys and girls _would_ be giving old people, who wish them well, so much trouble! However, it was no good thinking of that just then. He considered that, at the present moment, they would not be able to bear the sight of each other in suffering and peril; that mutual tenderness would make them plead with each other in each other s behalf, and that each would be obliged to set the example to each of a concession, to which each exhorted each; and on this fine philosophical view he proceeded to act. CHAPTER XXII. JUCUNDUS PROPOUNDS HIS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. For thirty-six hours Agellius had been confined in his underground receptacle, light being almost excluded, a bench and a rug being his means of repose, and a full measure of bread, wine, and olives being his dole. The shrieks and yells of the rioters could be distinctly heard in his prison, as the day of his seizure went on, and they passed by the temple of Astarte; but what happened at his farm, and how it fared with C cilius, he had no means of conjecturing; nor indeed how it was to fare with himself, for on the face of the transaction, as was in form the fact, he was in the hands of the law, and only indulged with the house of a relative for his prison. On the second night he was released by his uncle s confidential slave, who brought him up to a small back closet on the ground floor, which was lighted from the roof, and next morning, being the second day after the riot, Jucundus came in to have his confidential conversation with him. His uncle began by telling him that he was a government prisoner, but that he hoped by his influence in high places to get him off and out of Sicca without any prejudice to his honour. He told him that he had managed it privately, and if he had treated him with apparent harshness up to the evening before, it was in order to save appearances with the apparitors who had attended him. He then went on to inform him that the mob had visited his cottage, and had caught some man there; he supposed some accomplice or ally of his nephew s. They had seized him, and were bringing him off, but the fellow had been clever enough to effect his escape. He did not know more than this, but it had happened very fortunately, for the general belief in the place was, that it was Agellius who had been taken, and who had managed to give them the slip. Since it could not any longer be safely denied that he was a Christian, though he (Jucundus) did not think so himself, he had encouraged or rather had given his confirmation to the report; and when some persons who had means of knowing had asserted that the culprit was double the age of his nephew and more, and not at all of his make or description, but a sort of slave, or rather that he was the slave of Agellius who had belonged to his father Strabo, Jucundus had boldly asserted that Agellius, in the emergency, had availed himself of some of the remarkably powerful charms which Christians were known to possess, and had made himself seem what he really was not, in order to escape detection. It had not indeed answered the purpose entirely, for he had actually been taken; but no blame in the charm, which perhaps, after all, had enabled him to escape. However, Agellius was gone, he told people, and a good riddance, and he hoped never to see him again. But you see, my dear boy, he concluded, this was all talk for the occasion, for I hope you will live here many years in respectability and credit. I intend you should close my eyes when my time comes, and inherit whatever I have to leave you; for as to that fellow Juba, he inspires me with no confidence in him at all. Agellius thanked his uncle with all his heart for his kind and successful efforts on his behalf; he did not think there was a word he had said, in the future he had sketched for him, which he could have wished altered. But he thought Jucundus over-sanguine; much as he should like to live with him and tend him in his old age, he did not think he should ever be permitted to return to Sicca. He was a Christian, and must seek some remote corner of the world, or at least some city where he was unknown. Every one in Sicca would point at him as the Christian; he would experience a thousand rubs and collisions, even if the mob did not rise against him, without corresponding advantage; on the other hand, he would have no influence. But were he in the midst of a powerful and widely-extended community of Christians, he might in his place do work, and might extend the faith as one of a number, unknown himself, and strong in his brethren. He therefore proposed as soon as possible to sell his effects and stock, and retire from the sight of men, at least for a time. You think this persecution, then, will be soon at an end? asked Jucundus. I judge by the past, answered Agellius; there have been times of trial and of rest hitherto, and I suppose it will be so again. And one place has hitherto been exempt from the violence of our enemies, when another has been the scene of it. A new time is coming, trust me, said Jucundus, gravely. Those popular commotions are all over. What happened two days ago is a sample of what will come of them; they have received their _coup-de-gr ce_. The State is taking up the matter, Rome itself, thank the gods! a tougher sort of customer than these villain ratcatchers and offal-eaters, whom you had to do with two days since. Great Rome is now at length in earnest, my boy, which she ought to have been a long time back, before you were born; and then you know, and he nodded, you would have had no choice; you wouldn t have had the temptation to make a fool of yourself. Well, then, answered Agellius, if a new time is really coming, there is less chance than ever of my continuing here. Now be a sensible fellow, as you are when you choose, said his uncle; look the matter in the face, do. You cannot wrestle with impossibilities, you cannot make facts to pattern. There are lawful religions, there are illicit. Christianity is illicit; it is not tolerated; that s not your fault; you cannot help it; you would, if you could; you can t. Now you have observed your point of honour; you have shown you can stand up like a man, and suffer for your own fancy. Still Rome does not give way; and you must make the best of it. You must give in, and you are far too good (I don t compliment, I speak my mind), far too amiable, excellent, sweet a boy for so rascally a superstition. There is something stronger than Rome, said the nephew almost sternly. Jucundus cut him short. Agellius! he said, you must not say that in this house. You shall not use that language under my roof. I ll not put up with it, I tell you. Take your treason elsewhere.... This accursed obstinacy! he said to himself; but I must take care what I am doing; then aloud, Well, we both of us have been railing; no good comes of railing; railing is not argument. But now, I say, do be sensible, if you can. Is not the imperial government in earnest now? better late than never, but it is now in earnest. And now mark my words, by this day five years, five years at the utmost, I say by this day five years there will not be a single ragamuffin Christian in the whole Roman world. And he looked fierce. Ye gods! Rome, Rome has swept from the earth by her very breath conspiracies, confederacies, plots against her, without ever failing; she will do so now with this contemptible, Jew-begotten foe. In what are we enemies to Rome, Jucundus? said Agellius; why will you always take it for granted? Take it for granted! answered he, is it not on the face of the matter? I suppose _they_ are enemies to a state, whom the state _calls_ its enemies. Besides, why a pother of words? Swear by the genius of the emperor, invoke the Dea Roma, sacrifice to Jove; no, not a bit of it, not a whisper, not a sign, not a grain of incense. You go out of your way to insult us; and then you come with a grave face, and say you are loyal. You kick our shins, and you wish us to kiss you on both cheeks for it. A few harmless ceremonies; we are not entrapping you; we are not using your words against yourselves; we tell you the meaning beforehand, the whole meaning of them. It is not as if we tied you to the belief of the nursery: we don t say, If you burn incense, you profess to believe that old Jupiter is shivering atop of Olympus; we don t say, You swear by the genius of C sar, therefore he has a genius, black, or white, or piebald, No, we give you the meaning of the act; it is a mere expression of loyalty to the empire. If then you won t do it, you confess yourself _ipso facto_ disloyal. It is incomprehensible. And he had become quite red. My dear uncle, said Agellius, I give you my solemn word, that the people whom you so detest do pray for the welfare of the imperial power continually, as a matter of duty and as a matter of interest. Pray! pray! fudge and nonsense! cried Jucundus, almost mimicking him in his indignation; pray! who thanks you for your prayers? what s the good of prayers? Prayers, indeed! ha, ha! A little loyalty is worth all the praying in the world. I ll tell you what, Agellius; you are, I am sorry to say it, but you are hand and glove with a set of traitors, who shall and will be smoked out like a nest of wasps. _You_ don t know; _you_ are not in the secret, nor the wretched slave, poor beast, who was pulled to pieces yesterday (ah! you don t know of him) at the Flamen s, nor a multitude of other idiots. But, d ye see, and he chucked up his head significantly, there are puppets, and there are wires. Few know what is going on. They won t have done (unless we put them down; but we will) till they have toppled down the state. But Rome will put them down. Come, be sensible, listen to reason; now I am going to put facts before my poor, dear, well-meaning boy. Oh that you saw things as I do! What a trouble you are to me! Here am I My dearest uncle, Jucundus, cried Agellius, I assure you, it is the most intense pain to me Very well, very well, interrupted the uncle in turn, I believe it, of course I believe it; but listen, listen. Every now and then, he continued in a more measured and lower tone, every now and then the secret is blabbed blabbed. There was that Tertullianus of Carthage, some fifty years since. He wrote books; books have done a great deal of harm before now; but _read_ his books read and ponder. The fellow has the insolence to tell the proconsul that he and the whole government, the whole city and province, the whole Roman world, the emperors, all but the pitiful _clique_ to which he belongs, are destined, after death, to flames for ever and ever. There s loyalty! but the absurdity is greater than the malevolence. Rightly are the fellows called atheists and men-haters. Our soldiers, our statesmen, our magistrates, and judges, and senators, and the whole community, all worshippers of the gods, every one who crowns his head, every one who loves a joke, and all our great historic names, heroes, and worthies, the Scipios, the Decii, Brutus, C sar, Cato, Titus, Trajan, Antoninus, are inmates, not of the Elysian fields, if Elysian fields there be, but of Tartarus, and will never find a way out of it. That man, Tertullianus, is nothing to us, uncle, answered Agellius; a man of great ability, but he quarrelled with us, and left us. _I_ can t draw nice distinctions, said Jucundus. Your people have quarrelled among themselves perhaps on an understanding; we can t split hairs. It s the same with your present hierophant at Carthage, Cyprianus. Nothing can exaggerate, I am told, the foulness of his attack upon the gods of Rome, upon Romulus, the Augurs, the Ancilia, the consuls, and whatever a Roman is proud of. As to the imperial city itself, there s hardly one of their high priests that has not died under the hands of the executioner, as a convict. The precious fellows take the title of Pontifex Maximus; bless their impudence! Well, my boy, this is what I say; be, if you will, so preternaturally sour and morose as to misconceive and mislike the innocent, graceful, humanising, time-honoured usages of society; be so, for what I care, if this is all; but it isn t all. Such misanthropy is wisdom, absolute wisdom, compared with the Titanic presumption and audacity of challenging to single combat the sovereign of the world. Go and kick down Mount Atlas first. You have it all your own way, Jucundus, answered his nephew, and so you must move in your own circle, round and round. There is no touching you, if you first assume your premisses, and then prove them by means of your conclusion. My dear Agellius, said his uncle, giving his head a very solemn shake, take the advice of an old man. When you are older than you are, you will see better who is right and who is wrong. You ll be sorry you despised me, a true, a prudent, an experienced friend; you will. Shake yourself, come do. Why should you link your fortunes, in the morning of life, with desperate men, only because your father, in his last feeble days, was entrapped into doing so? I really will not believe that you are going to throw away hope and life on so bad a bargain. Can t you speak a word? Here you ve let me speak, and won t say one syllable for yourself. I don t think it kind of you. Thus adjured, Agellius began. Well, he said, it s a long history; you see, we start, my dear uncle, from different points. How am I possibly to join issue with you? I can only tell you my conclusion. Hope and life, you say. Why, my only hope, my only life, my only joy, desire, consolation, and treasure is that I am a Christian. Hope and life! interrupted Jucundus, immortal gods! life and hope in being a Christian! do I hear aright? Why, man, a prison brings despair, not hope; and the sword brings death, not life. By Esculapius! life and hope! you choke me, Agellius. Life and hope! you are beyond three Anticyras. Life and hope! if you were old, if you were diseased, if you were given over, and had but one puff of life left in you, then you might be what you would, for me; but your hair is black, your cheek is round, your limbs are strong, your voice is full; and you are going to make all these a sacrifice to Hecate! has your good genius fed that plump frame, ripened those goods looks, nerved your arm, bestowed that breadth of chest, that strength of loins, that straightness of spine, that vigour of step, only that you may feed the crows? or to be torn on the rack, scorched in the flame, or hung on the gibbet? is this your gratitude to nature? What has been your price? for what have you sold yourself? Speak, man, speak. Are you dumb as well as dement? Are you dumb, I say, are you dumb? O Jucundus, cried Agellius, irritated at his own inability to express himself or hold an argument, if you did but know what it was to have the Truth! The Christian has found the Truth, the eternal Truth, in a world of error. That is his bargain, that is his hire; can there be a greater? Can I give up the Truth? But all this is Punic or Barbar to you. It certainly did pose Jucundus for half a minute, as if he was trying to take in, not so much the sense, as the words of his nephew s speech. He looked bewildered, and though he began to answer him at once, it took several sentences to bring him into his usual flow of language. After one or two exclamations, The truth! he cried, _this_ is what I understand you to say, the truth. The _truth_ is your bargain; I think I m right, the truth; Hm; what is truth? What in heaven and earth do you mean by truth? where did you get that cant? What oriental tomfoolery is bamboozling you? The truth! he cried, staring at him with eyes, half of triumph, half of impatience, the truth! Jove help the boy! the truth! can truth pour me out a cup of melilotus? can truth crown me with flowers? can it sing to me? can it bring Glyceris to me? drop gold into my girdle? or cool my brows when fever visits me? Can truth give me a handsome suburban with some five hundred slaves, or raise me to the duumvirate? Let it do this, and I will worship it; it shall be my god; it shall be more to me than Fortune, Fate, Rome, or any other goddess on the list. But _I_ like to see, and touch, and feel, and handle, and weigh, and measure what is promised me. I wish to have a sample and an instalment. I am too old for chaff. Eat, drink, and be merry, that s my philosophy, that s my religion; and I know no better. To-day is ours, to-morrow is our children s. After a pause, he added, bitterly, If truth could get Callista out of prison, instead of getting her into it, I should have something to say to truth. Callista in prison! cried Agellius with surprise and distress, what do you mean, Jucundus? Yes, it s a fact; Callista _is_ in prison, answered he, and on suspicion of Christianity. Callista! Christianity! said Agellius, bewildered, do I hear aright? She a Christian! oh, impossible, uncle! you don t mean to say that she is in prison. Tell me, tell me, my dear, dear Jucundus, what this wonderful news means. You ought to know more about it than I, answered he, if there is any meaning in it. But if you want my opinion, here it is. I don t believe she is more a Christian than I am; but I think she is over head and ears in love with you, and she has some notion that she is paying you a compliment, or interesting you in her, or sharing your fate (_I_ can t pretend to unravel the vagaries and tantarums of the female mind) by saying that she is what she is _not_. If not, perhaps she has done it out of spite and contradiction. You can never answer for a woman. Whom should she spite? whom contradict? cried Agellius, thrown for the moment off his balance. O Callista! Callista in prison for Christianity! Oh if it s true that she is a Christian! but what if she is not? he added with great terror, what if she s not, and yet in prison, as if she were? How are we to get her out, uncle? Impossible! no, she s not a Christian she is not at all. She ought not to be there! Yet how wonderful! Well, I am sure of it, too, said Jucundus; I d stake the best image in my shop that she s not a Christian; but what if she is perverse enough to say she _is_? and such things are not uncommon. Then, I say, what in the world is to be done? If she says she is, why she is. There you are; and what can you do? You don t mean to say, exclaimed Agellius, that that sweet delicate child is in that horrible hole; impossible! and he nearly shrieked at the thought. What is the meaning of it all? dear, dear uncle, do tell me something more about it. Why did you not tell me before? What _can_ be done? Jucundus thought he now had him in his hand. Why, it s plain, he answered, what can be _done_. She s no Christian, we both agree. It s certain, too, that she chooses to say she is, or something like it. There s just one person who has influence with her, to make her tell the truth. Ha! cried Agellius, starting as if an asp had bitten him. Jucundus kept silence, and let the poison of the said asp work awhile in his nephew s blood. Agellius put his hands before his eyes; and with his elbows on his knees, began moving to and fro, as if in intense pain. I repeat what I have said, Jucundus observed at length; I do really think that she imagines a certain young gentleman is likely to be in trouble, and that she is determined to share the trouble with him. But it isn t true, cried Agellius with great vehemence; it s not true.... If she really is not a Christian, O my dear Lord, surely they won t put her to death as if she was? But if she has made up her mind to be in the same boat with you, and _will_ be a Christian while you are a Christian, what on earth can we do, Agellius? asked Jucundus. You have the whole matter in a nutshell. She does not love me, cried Agellius; no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. _I_ have no power over her; _I_ could not persuade her. What, what _does_ all this mean? and I shut up here? and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it. Well, answered Jucundus, it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you _could_ be let out to see her. But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. Poor, sweet Callista, he exclaimed, she s innocent, she s innocent; I mean she s not a Christian. Ah! he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me! and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery. Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. Come, come, my boy, he said, you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she s not a Christian (and she s not), she shall not die a Christian s death; something will turn up. She s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right. Yes, I will see her, said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian ... and his voice faltered; but if she is not, she shall live till she is. Well said! answered Jucundus, _till_ she is. She shall live _till_ she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall

bargain

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