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Khaled, A Tale of Arabia

<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> At the time when the beggars were carrying away Abdullah and his wife, Khaled was sitting in his accustomed place, silent and heavy at heart, and Zehowah played softly to him upon a barbat and sang a sad song in a low voice. For she saw that gloominess had overcome him and she feared to disturb his mood, though she would gladly have made him smile if she had been able. A black slave of Khaled's whom he had treated with great kindness had secretly told him that there was a plan to enter the palace with evil during that night, for the fellow had spied upon those who knew and had overheard what he now told his master. He had also asked whether he should not warn the guards of the palace, in order that a strict watch should be kept, but Khaled had bidden him be silent. 'Either the guards are conspiring with the rest,' said Khaled, 'and will be the first to attack me, or they are ignorant of the plan; and if so how can they withstand so great a multitude? I will abide by my[236] own fate, and no man shall lose his life for my sake unless he desires to do so.' But he privately put on a coat of mail under his aba, and when he sat down in the harem to await the end he would not let Zehowah take his sword, but laid it upon his feet and sat upright against the wall, looking towards the door. 'Since I have no soul,' he said to himself, 'this is probably the end of all things. But there is no reason why I should not kill as many of these murderers as possible.' He was gloomy and desponding, however, since he saw that his hour was at hand, and that Zehowah was no nearer to loving him than before. He watched her fingers as she played upon the instrument, and he listened to the soft notes of her voice. 'It is a strange thing,' he thought, 'and I believe that she is not able to love, any more than my sword upon my feet, which is good and true and beautiful, and ever ready to my hand, but is itself cold, having no feeling in it.' Still Zehowah sang and Khaled heard her song, listening watchfully for a man's tread upon the threshold and looking to see a man's face and the light of steel in the shadow beyond the lamps. 'The night is long,' he said at last, aloud. 'It is not yet midnight,' Zehowah answered. 'But you are tired. Will you not go to rest?'[237] 'I shall rest to-morrow,' said Khaled. 'To-night I will sit here and look at you, if you will sing to me.' Zehowah gazed into his eyes, wondering a little at his exceeding sadness. Then she bowed her head and struck the strings of the instrument to a new measure more melancholy than the last, and sang an old song of many verses, with a weeping refrain. 'Are you also heavy at heart to-night?' Khaled asked, when he had listened to the end. 'It is not easy to kindle a lamp when the rain is falling heavily,' Zehowah said. 'Your sadness has taken hold of me, like the chill of a fever. I cannot laugh to-night.' 'And yet you have a good cause, for they say that to-night the earth is to be delivered of a great malefactor, a certain Persian, whose name is perhaps Hassan, a notorious robber.' Khaled turned away his head, smiling bitterly, for he desired not to see the satisfaction which would come into her face. 'This is a poor jest,' she answered in a low voice, and the barbat rolled from her knees to the carpet beside her. 'I mean no jesting, for I do not desire to disappoint you, since you will naturally be glad to be freed from me. But I am glad if you are willing to sing to me, for this night is very long.'[238] 'Do you think that I believe this of you?' asked Zehowah, after some time. 'You believed it yesterday, you believe it to-day, and you will believe it to-morrow when you are free to make choice of some other man—whom you will doubtless love.' 'Yet I know that it is not true,' she said suddenly. 'It is too late,' Khaled answered. 'The more I love you, the more I see how little faith you have in me—and the less faith can I put in you. Will you sing to me again?' 'This is very cruel and bitter.' Zehowah sighed and looked at him. 'Will you sing to me again, Zehowah?' he repeated. 'I like your sad music.' Then she took up the barbat from the carpet, but though she struck a chord she could not go on and her hand lay idle upon the strings, and her voice was still. 'You are perhaps tired,' said Khaled after some time. 'Then lay aside the instrument and sleep.' He composed himself in his seat, his sword being ready and his eyes towards the door. But Zehowah shook her head as though awaking from a dream, her fingers ran swiftly over the strings and gentle tones came from her lips. Khaled listened thoughtfully to the song and the words soothed him,[239] but before she had reached the end, she stopped suddenly. 'Why do you not finish it?' he asked. 'If you have told me truth,' she answered, 'this is no time for singing and music. But if not, why should I labour to amuse you, as though I were a slave? I will call one of the women who has a sweet voice and a good memory. She will sing you a kasid which will last till morning.' 'You are wrong,' said Khaled. 'There is no reason in what you say.' But he reflected upon her nature, while he spoke. 'Surely,' he thought, 'there is nothing in the world so contradictory as a woman. I ask of her a song and she is silent. I bid her rest, supposing her to be weary, and she sings to me. If I tell her that I hate her she will perhaps answer that she loves me. Min Allah! Let us see.' 'You inspire hatred in me,' he said aloud, after a few moments. At this Zehowah was very much astonished, and she again let the barbat fall from her knees. 'You wished me to believe that you loved me, and this not long since,' she answered. 'It may be so. I did not know you then.' He looked towards the door as though he would say nothing further. Zehowah sighed, not understanding[240] him yet being wounded in that sensitive tissue of the heart which divides the outer desert of pride from the inner garden of love, belonging to neither but separating the two as a veil. And when there is a rent in that veil, pride looks on love and scoffs bitterly, and love looks on pride and weeps tears of fire. 'I am sorry that you hate me,' she said, but the words were bitter in her mouth as a draught from a spring into which the enemy have cast wormwood, that none may drink of it. 'Allah is great!' thought Khaled. 'This is already an advantage.' Then Zehowah took up the barbat and began to sing a careless song not like any which Khaled had ever heard. This is the song— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'The fisherman of Oman tied the halter under his arms, The sky was as blue as the sea in winter. The fisherman dived into the deep waters As a ray of light shoots through a sapphire of price. The sea was as blue as the sky, for it was winter. Among the rocks below the water it was dark and cold Though the sky above was as blue as a fine sapphire. The fisherman saw a rough shell lying there in the dark between two crabs, "In that shell there must be a large pearl," he said. But when he would have taken it the crabs ran together and fastened upon his hand. His heart was bursting in his ribs for lack of breath And he thought of the sky above, as blue as the sea in winter. [241] So he pulled the halter and was taken half-fainting into the boat. The crabs held his hand but he struck them off, And his heart beat merrily as he breathed the wind Blowing over the sea as blue as the sky in winter. "There are no pearls in this ocean," he said to his companions, "But there are crabs if any one cares to dive." One of them saw the shell caught between the legs of the crabs, He opened it and found a pearl of the value of a kingdom. "The pearl is mine, but you may eat the crabs," he said to the fisherman, "Since you say there are no pearls in this ocean, Which is as blue as the sky in winter." Then the fisherman smote him and tried to take the pearl, But as they strove it fell into the deep water and sank, Where the sea was as blue as the sky in winter. "I will drown you with a heavy weight," said the fisherman, "for you have robbed me of my fortune." "I have not robbed you, O brother, for the pearl is again where you found it, In the sea which is as blue as the sky in winter." Then the fisherman dived again many times in vain Till the drums of his ears were broken and his heart was dissolved for lack of breath. But the pearl is still there, at the bottom of the sea, And the sea is as blue as the sky in winter. This is the kasid of the fisherman of Oman Which Zehowah Bint ul Mahomed el Hamid Has made and sung for her lord, Khaled the Sultan. May Allah send him long life and many such hearts As the one which fell into the ocean When the sky was as blue as the sea in winter.' </div> </div> [242] 'This is a new song,' said Khaled, when she had finished. 'Is it? I made it many months ago,' Zehowah answered. 'Does it please you?' 'It is not very melodious, nor do I think there is much truth in the matter of it. But I thank you, for it has served to pass the time.' Zehowah laughed a little scornfully. 'I daresay you would prefer the song of a Persian nightingale,' she said. 'Nevertheless my song is full of truth, though you cannot see it. There are many who seek for things of great value and do not know when they have found them because a crab has bitten their hands.' 'Verily,' thought Khaled, 'this is indeed the spirit of contradiction.' But he was silent for a time, not wishing that she should think him easily moved. In the meantime Zehowah played softly upon the little instrument and Khaled watched her, wondering whether she were not playing upon the strings of his heart, for her own pleasure, as skilfully as her fingers ran upon the chords of the barbat. Many words rose to his lips then, and he wished that he also had the science of music that he might sing sweetly to her. Then he laughed aloud at his own imagination, which was indeed that of a foolish youth.[243] 'The lion roaring for a sweetmeat,' he thought, 'and the sword-hand aching to scratch little tunes upon a lute!' Zehowah turned suddenly when he laughed, and ceased from playing. 'I am glad that you are merry,' she said. 'I like laughter better than reproaches and prefer it to gloomy forebodings of evil when none is at hand.' Khaled's face grew dark, and he looked again towards the door. 'If you will stay with me, you shall see that evil is not far off,' he answered, for she had reminded him of what he was expecting, and he knew that it was no jesting matter. 'But you shall please yourself in this as in all other matters, though it were better for you to go now and shut yourself up in an inner room and wait for the end. The night is advancing, and all will soon be over.' 'Hear me, Khaled,' said Zehowah, speaking earnestly. 'If you bid me go, I will go, or if you desire me to stay, I will remain with you. But if you are indeed in danger, as you say, let us call up the guards and the watchmen who sleep in the palace, that they may stand by you with their swords and help you to fight if there is to be strife.' 'I will have no treacherous fellows about me,' Khaled answered, 'and there are none here whom I can[244] trust. My hour is coming and I will fight this fight alone. But if you were such as I once hoped, I would say: "Remain with me, so long as you are safe." Now, since Allah has willed it thus, I say to you: "Go and seek safety where you can find it." Go, therefore, Zehowah, and leave me alone, for I need no one beside me, and you least of all.' He turned away his head, lest she should see his face, and with his hand made a gesture bidding her to leave him. She rose from her seat softly and hung the barbat upon the wall with the other musical instruments, looking over her shoulder to see whether he would call her back. But he neither moved nor spoke, being resolved to venture all upon this trial, for he knew that if she loved him even but a little, she would not leave him alone in the extremity of danger. Then she went towards the door of the room, turning her head to look at him as she passed near him. 'Farewell,' she said. But he did not answer nor show that he heard her voice. As she lifted the curtain to go out, she lingered and gazed at him. He sat motionless upon the carpet, upright against the wall, his sword lying across his feet, his hands hidden under his sleeves, looking towards her indeed but not seeming to see her. 'There can be no real danger,' she thought. 'Could[245] any man sit thus, expecting death, and refusing to let any one stand by him to fight with him? Surely, he is playing with me, and setting a trap for me. But he shall not catch me.' She turned to go and the curtain was falling behind her when the night wind from the open passage brought a sound to her ears from a far distance. She started and listened, as camels do when they hear the first moving of the hot wind. There were no voices in the noise, which was low and dull, like the breathing of a great multitude and the soft moving of feet, and altogether it was as the slow rising and falling back of the sea upon the shores of Oman, when the great summer storm is coming from the south-west. Zehowah stood still a moment and drank in every murmur that reached her from without. Then her face grew white and her lips trembled when she thought of Khaled sitting alone on the other side of the curtain, with his sword upon his feet, waiting for the end. She lifted the hanging a little and looked at him again. He saw her, but made no sign. Even as she looked, the distant murmur grew louder and she fancied that he moved his head as though he heard it. Then she entered the room and came and stood before him. 'There is a great multitude in the square before the palace,' she said.[246] 'I know it,' he answered, calmly looking up to her face. 'It needed not that you should tell me.' 'Will you not let me stay with you now?' asked Zehowah. 'Why should you stay here?' he asked with a pretence of indifference. 'Of what use are you to me? Take this sword. Can you strike with it? Your wrist is feeble. Or take a bow from the weapons on the wall. Can you draw the string? Your strength is sufficient for the lute, and your skill for scratching the strings of the barbat. Go and save yourself. I am alone and every man's hand is against me.' Zehowah stood still in the room and hesitated, looking into his eyes for something which she all at once desired with a hot thirst. At last she spoke in an uncertain voice. 'Yet you said not long since that if I were such as you once hoped, you would bid me remain.' 'I do not care,' he answered. 'Yet for your own sake, I advise you to go away.' 'For my own sake!' she repeated, trying to speak scornfully, and turning to go a second time. But she did not reach the door. She stood still before the weapons which hung upon the wall, and paused a moment and then took a sword from its place. Khaled watched her. She grasped the hilt as[247] well as she could and swung the weapon in the air once with all her might. Then she uttered a little cry of pain, for she had twisted her wrist. The sword fell to the floor. 'He is right,' she said in a low tone, speaking aloud to herself. 'I am weak and can be of no use to him.' She went on once more towards the door, slowly, her head bent down, then stopped and then looked back again. She feared that she might see a smile on his face, but his eyes were grave and calm. Then he saw her turn and lean against the wall as though she were suddenly weak. She hid her face, and there was silence for a moment, and after that a low sound of weeping filled the still room. 'Why do you shed tears?' Khaled asked presently. 'There is no danger for you, I think. If you will go and shut yourself in the inner rooms you will be safe.' She turned fiercely and their eyes met. 'What do I care for myself?' she cried. 'Among so many deaths there is surely one for me!' Even as she spoke Khaled felt a cool breath upon his forehead, stirring the stillness. He knew that it came from the beating of an angel's wings. All his body trembled, his head fell forward a little and his eyes closed. 'This is death,' he thought, 'and my fate has come.[248] A little longer, and she would have loved me.' But he did not speak aloud. Again Zehowah's face was turned towards the wall, and still the sound of her weeping filled the air, not subsiding and dying away, but rather increasing with every moment. 'Life is not yet gone,' said Khaled in his heart. 'There is yet hope.' For he no longer felt the cold breath on his forehead, and the trembling had ceased for a moment. He tried to speak aloud, but his lips could not form words nor his throat utter sounds, and he was amazed at his weakness. A great despair came upon him and his eyes were darkened so that he could not see the lights. 'If only I could speak to her now, she might love me yet!' he thought. The distant murmur from without was louder now and reached the room, and he heard it. He tried with all his might to raise his hand, to lift his head, to speak a single word. 'It may be that this is the nature of death,' he thought again, 'and I am already dead.' The noise from the multitude came louder and louder. Zehowah heard it and her breath was caught in her throat. She looked up and saw that the high window of the chamber was no longer quite dark.[249] The day was dawning. Then pressing her bosom with her hands she looked again at Khaled. His head was bent upon his breast and he was so still that she thought he had fallen asleep. A cry broke from her lips. 'He cares not!' she exclaimed. 'What is it to him, whether I go, or stay?' Again Khaled felt the cool breeze in the room, fanning his forehead, and once more his limbs trembled. Then he felt that his strength was returning and that he could move. He raised his head and looked at Zehowah, and just then there was a distant crashing roar, as the Bedouins began to strike upon the gates. 'It is time,' he said, and taking his sword in his hand he rose from his seat. Zehowah came towards him with outstretched hands, wet cheeks and burning eyes. She stood before him as though to bar the way, and hinder him from going out. 'What is it to you, whether I go, or stay?' he asked, repeating her own words. 'What is it? By Allah, it is all my life—I will not let you go!' And she took hold of his wrists with her weak woman's hands, and tried to thrust him back. 'Go, Zehowah,' he answered, gently pressing her from him. 'Go now, and let me meet them alone,[250] knowing that you are safe. For though this be pity which you feel, I know it is nothing more.' He would have passed by her, but still she held him and kept before him. 'You shall not go!' she cried. 'I will prevent you with my body. Pity, you say? Oh, Khaled! Is pity fierce? Is pity strong? Does pity burn like fire? You shall not go, I say!' Then her hands grew cold upon his wrists, her cheeks burned and in her eyes there was a deep and gleaming light. All this Khaled felt and saw, while he heard the raging of the multitude without. His sight grew again uncertain. A third time the cool breath blew in his face. 'Yet it cannot be love,' he said uncertainly. Yet she heard him. 'Not love? Khaled, Khaled—my life, my breath, my soul—breath of my life, life of my spirit—oh, Khaled, you have never loved as I love you now!' Her hands let go his wrists and clasped about his neck, and her face was hidden upon his shoulder while her breath came and went like the gusts of the burning storm in summer. But as he held her, Khaled looked up and saw that the Angel of Allah was before him, having a smiling countenance and bearing in his hand a bright flame like the crescent moon.[251] 'It is well done, O Khaled,' said the Angel, 'and this is thy reward. Allah sends thee this to be thy own and to live after thy body, saying that thou hast well earned it, for love such as thou hast got now is a rare thing, not common with women and least of all with wives of kings. And now Allah alone knows what thy fate is to be, but thou shalt be judged at the end like other men, according to thy deeds, be they good or evil. And so receive thy soul and do with it as thou wilt.' The Angel then held out the flame which was like the crescent moon and it immediately took shape and became the brighter image of Khaled himself, endowed with immortality, and the knowledge of its own good and evil. And when Khaled had looked at it fixedly for a moment, being overcome with joy, the vision of himself disappeared, and he was aware that it had entered his own body and taken up its life within him. 'Return thanks to Allah, and go thy way to the end,' said the Angel, who then unfolded his wings and departed to paradise whence he had come. But Khaled clasped Zehowah tightly in his arms, and looking upwards repeated the first chapter of the Koran and also the one hundred and tenth chapter, which is entitled, Assistance. When he had performed these inward devotions he turned his gaze upon Zehowah and kissed her.[252] 'Praise be to Allah,' he said, 'for this and all blessings. But now let us defend ourselves if we can, my beloved, for I think my enemies are at hand.' And so he would have stooped to take up his sword which had fallen upon the floor. But still Zehowah held him and would not let him go. 'Not yet, Khaled!' she cried. 'Not yet, soul of my soul! The gates are very strong, and will withstand this battering for some time.' 'Would you have him whom you love sit still in the net until the hunters come to catch him?' he asked in a tender voice. 'You said you would wait here,' she pleaded. 'If we must die, let us die here—our life will be a little longer so.' 'Did I say so? I thought you did not love me then, and I would have slain a few only, for my own sake, that my blood might not be unavenged. But now I will slay them all, for your sake, and the bodies of the dead shall be a rampart for you.' 'Oh, do not go!' she cried again. 'I know a secret passage from the palace, that leads out by the wall of the city—come quickly, there is yet time, and we shall escape—for Allah will protect us. Surely, when I was fainting in your arms I heard an angel's voice—and surely the angel is yet with us, and will lighten the way as we go.'[253] 'The Angel was indeed here, for he brought me the soul that was promised, if you loved me. And now all is changed, for if we live, we get the victory and if we die we shall inherit paradise.' And Zehowah looked into his eyes and saw the living soul flaming within, and she believed him. 'If you had always been as you are now, I should have always loved you,' she said softly, and stooping down she took up his sword and drew it out and put it into his hand. 'I tried to wield one when you were not looking,' she said, 'but it hurt my wrist. Come, Khaled—let us go together.' Then he kissed her once more, and she kissed him, and putting one arm about her, he led her swiftly out by the passage towards the great gate. It was now broad dawn and the light was coming in by the narrow windows. Zehowah clung to Khaled closely, for the noise of the thundering blows was terrible and deafening, and the multitude without were shouting to each other and calling upon Abdullah to come out, for they supposed him to be in the palace. But the guards and soldiers within had all hidden themselves though they were awake, for there was no one to command them nor to lead them, and they dared not open the gate lest they themselves should be slain in the first rush of the crowd.[254] Then Khaled and Zehowah paused for a moment near the gate. 'It is better that you should go back, my beloved,' said Khaled. 'Hear what a multitude of angry men are waiting outside.' 'I will not leave you—neither in life nor in death,' she answered. 'Let it be so, then,' said Khaled, 'and I will do my best. For a hundred men could not stop the way before me now, and I think that of five hundred I could slay many.' So he went up to the gate, and Zehowah stood a little behind him so as to be free of the first sweep of his sword. 'Abdullah!' cried some of the crowd without, while battering at the iron-bound doors. 'Abdullah, thou son of Mohammed and father of lies, come out to us, or we will go to thee!' 'Abdullah, thou thief, thou Persian, thou cheat, come out, and may boiling water be thy portion!' 'Stand back from the gate, and I will open it to you!' cried Khaled in a voice that might have been heard across the Red Desert as far as the shores of the great ocean. 'I, Khaled, will open,' he cried again. Then there was a great silence and the people fell back a little.[255] Khaled drew the bolts and unfastened the locks, and opened the gates inward and stood forth alone in the morning light, his sword in his hand and his soul burning in his eyes. 'Khaled!' cried the first who saw him, and the cry was taken up. The shout was great, and full of joy and shook the earth. For the multitude had grown hot in anger against Abdullah, while they battered at the gates, supposing that he had slain Khaled. But he himself could not at first distinguish whether they were angry or glad. 'If any man wishes to take my life,' he cried, 'let him come and take it.' And the sword they all knew in battle, began to make a storm of lightning about his head in the morning sun. Then the strong man who had wrestled and thrown the other before dawn, stood out alone and spoke in a loud voice. 'We will have no Sultan but Khaled!' he cried. 'Give us Abdullah that we may make trappings for our camels from his skin.' Then Khaled sheathed his sword and came forward from under the gate, and Zehowah stood veiled beside him. 'Where is this Abdullah?' he asked. 'Find him if you can, for I would like to speak with him.'[256] Then there was silence for a space. But by this time Abdullah's men had fled, for they had already been forced back in the crowding, and so soon as they saw Khaled standing unhurt under the palace gate, they turned quickly and ran for their lives to escape from the city, seeing that all was lost. 'Where is Abdullah?' Khaled asked again. And a voice from afar off answered, as though heralding the coming of a great personage. 'Behold Abdullah, the Sultan of Nejed!' it cried. Then the multitude turned angrily, grasping swords and spears and breathing curses. But the murmur broke suddenly into a shout of laughter louder even than the cry for Khaled had been. For a great procession had entered the square and the people made way for it as it advanced towards the palace. First came a score of lepers, singing in hideous voices and dancing in the early sun, filthy and loathsome to behold. And then came all manner of cripples, laughing and chattering, with coloured rags fastened to their staves, an army of distorted apes. Then, walking alone and feeling his way with his staff came the Sheikh of the beggars. And in one hand he held the end of a halter, which was fastened about Abdullah's head and neck and between his teeth, so that he could not cry out. And the blind man chanted a kasid which he had composed in the[257] night in honour of Abdullah ibn Mohammed el Herir, the victorious Sultan of Nejed. 'Upon whom may Allah send much boiling water,' sang the Sheikh of the beggars after each stave. And Abdullah, his head and face shaven as bald as an ostrich's egg, was bent by the weight he carried, for upon his shoulders rode the cripple whom they called the Ass of Egypt, clapping the wooden shoes he used on his hands, like cymbals to accompany the song of the blind man. And last of all came a veiled woman, walking sadly, for she could not escape, being surrounded and driven on by many scores of beggars, all dancing and shouting and crying out mock praises of the Sultan Abdullah and his wife. But as the procession moved on the laughter increased a hundredfold, until all men's eyes were blind with mirth, and their breasts were bursting and aching with so much merriment. At last the Sheikh of the beggars stood before Khaled holding the halter. And here he made a deep obeisance, pulling the halter so that Abdullah nearly fell to the ground. 'In the name of the beggars,' he said, 'I present to your high majesty the Sultan of Nejed, Abdullah ibn Mohammed, and his chief minister the Ass of Egypt, and moreover the sultan's wife. May it please your high majesty to reward the beggars with[258] a few small coins and a little barley, for having brought his high majesty, the new sultan, safely to the gate of the palace and to the steps of the throne.' Thereupon all the beggars, the lepers, the cripples, the blind men and those of weak understanding fell down together at Khaled's feet. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> This is the story of Khaled the believing genius, which he caused to be written down in letters of gold by the most accomplished scribe in Nejed, that all men might remember it. But of what afterwards occurred there is nothing told in the scribe's manuscript. It is recounted, however, in the commentaries of one Abd ul Latif that Khaled did not cause Abdullah to be beheaded, nor in any way hurt, save that he was driven out of the city with his wife, where certain Bedouins affirmed that he lived for many years with her in great destitution. But it is well known that after this Zehowah bore Khaled many strong sons, whose children and children's children reigned gloriously for many generations in Nejed. And Khaled and Zehowah died full of years on the same day, and lie buried together in a garden without the Hasa gate, and the pilgrims from Ajman and the east visit their tombs even to the present time. Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. <div class="main"> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [259] <h3>MESSRS. MACMILLAN AND CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.</h3> <h4 class="booklist">POPULAR NOVELS BY MR. MARION CRAWFORD.</h4> Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. <h4 class="booklist">MR. 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SATURDAY REVIEW—"Unlike most novels, goes on improving up to the end." </div> <h4 class="booklist">PAUL PATOFF.</h4> <div class="blockquot">ATHENÆUM—"The originality of the story, the charm of the description, and the brilliancy of the narrative are undeniable." </div> <h4 class="booklist">WITH THE IMMORTALS.</h4> <div class="blockquot">SPECTATOR—"To do justice to Mr. Crawford's remarkable book by extracts would be impossible.... It cannot fail to please a reader who enjoys crisp, clear, vigorous writing, and thoughts that are alike original and suggestive." </div> <h4 class="booklist">GREIFENSTEIN.</h4> <div class="blockquot">SATURDAY REVIEW—"With the exception of 'Saracinesca,' his most consistent work, Mr. Crawford has not written anything so good as his last novel 'Greifenstein.'" ACADEMY—"During the whole of his literary career Mr. Marion Crawford has produced nothing quite so powerful as one or two of the situations in 'Greifenstein.'" </div> <h4 class="booklist">SANT' ILARIO.</h4> <div class="blockquot">ATHENÆUM—"The plot is skilfully concocted, and the interest is sustained to the end. The various events, romantic, and even sensational, follow naturally and neatly, and the whole is a very clever piece of work." SCOTSMAN—"The book is full of passages of remarkable power. A reader will find it hard to decide whether this is not the best of Mr. Crawford's novels." </div> <h4 class="booklist">A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.</h4> <div class="blockquot">OXFORD MAGAZINE—"The idea of the story is original, the characters well drawn, and the interest sustained to the very last page. That Mr. Crawford, having a good story to tell, should tell it well, was only to be expected." GLOBE—"We are inclined to think this the best of Mr. Marion Crawford's stories.... His art is here at its best, and those who read his book will feel grateful to him for its keen humanity." </div> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> [260] NOVELS BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD. New and Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS. <div class="blockquot">A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH AND IN THE GOLD-FIELDS OF AUSTRALIA. </div> <div class="blockquot">GUARDIAN—"A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.... Altogether it is a capital story, full of wild adventure and startling incidents, and told with a genuine simplicity and quiet appearance of truth, as if the writer were really drawing upon his memory rather than his imagination." SPECTATOR—"We have nothing but praise for this story. Of adventure of the most stirring kind there is, as we have said, abundance. But there is more than this. The characters are drawn with great skill. Every one of the gang of bushrangers is strongly individualised. This is a book of no common literary force." WORLD—"An uncommonly good thing.... The book, in short, has the natural touch, both of place and person, on every page." MORNING POST—"As a picture of the earlier days of our Australian Colonies, and as an absorbing story, 'Robbery under Arms' has few equals." GRAPHIC—"That Mr. Boldrewood knows his subject through and through is as certain as his picture of the breaking-out of the first gold fever in Australia is the best ever written." </div> THE SQUATTER'S DREAM. THE MINER'S RIGHT. <div class="blockquot">A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS. </div> <div class="blockquot">WORLD—"Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the gold-fields,—tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again...." MANCHESTER EXAMINER—"The characters are sketched with real life and picturesqueness. The book is lively and readable from first to last." </div> A COLONIAL REFORMER. <div class="blockquot">ATHENÆUM—"A series of natural and entertaining pictures of Australian life, which are, above all things, readable." GLASGOW HERALD—"One of the most interesting books about Australia we have ever read." SATURDAY REVIEW—"Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point and vigour, and there is no better reading than the adventurous parts of his books." </div> A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON. <div class="blockquot">GLASGOW HERALD—"The interest never flags, and altogether 'A Sydney-Side Saxon' is a really refreshing book." ANTI-JACOBIN—"Thoroughly well worth reading.... A clever book, admirably written.... Brisk in incident, truthful and life-like in character.... Beyond and above all it has that stimulating hygienic quality, that cheerful, unconscious healthfulness, which makes a story like 'Robinson Crusoe,' or 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' so unspeakably refreshing after a course of even good contemporary fiction." </div> NEVERMORE. <div class="blockquot">ACADEMY—"Is perhaps the best story of the Rolf Boldrewood Series. Must be allowed to be one of the best works of the period." </div> MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [261] <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/i002.jpg" width-obs="179" height-obs="300" alt="Mr. F. Marion Crawford." title="Mr. F. Marion Crawford." /> Mr. F. Marion Crawford.</div> MACMILLAN'S Three-and-Sixpenny Library <div style="line-height: 1.5em;"> OF WORKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS In crown 8vo, cloth extra. </div> Recent Additions to the Series: Historical Characters. By Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer (Lord Dalling). Curiosities of Natural History. In 4 vols. By Frank Buckland. The Dewy Morn: A Novel. By Richard Jefferies. The Ingoldsby Legends. With 50 Illustrations by Cruikshank, Leech, Tenniel, etc. Consequences: A Novel. By Egerton Castle. Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. A Bachelor's Blunder. By W. E. Norris. Breezie Langton. By Hawley Smart. The Three Clerks. By Anthony Trollope. Fickle Fortune. By E. Werner. Success, and How He Won It. By E. Werner. Private Life of Marie Antoinette. By Madame Campan. The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By M. Guizot. Mary Queen of Scots. By M. Mignet. Memories of Father Healy of Little Bray. Autobiography and Reminiscences. By W. P. Frith, R.A. The Recollections of Marshall Macdonald, Duke of Tarentum. A complete List of the Series will be found on the following pages [262] <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/i003.jpg" width-obs="227" height-obs="300" alt="Rolf Boldrewood." title="Rolf Boldrewood." /> Rolf Boldrewood.</div> ANONYMOUS. <ul><li>Hogan, M.P.</li> <li>Tim.</li> <li>The New Antigone.</li> <li>Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor.</li> </ul> By ROLF BOLDREWOOD. <ul><li>Robbery Under Arms.</li> <li>The Squatter's Dream.</li> <li>A Colonial Reformer.</li> <li>The Miner's Right.</li> <li>A Sidney-Side Saxon.</li> <li>Nevermore.</li> <li>A Modern Buccaneer.</li> <li>The Sealskin Coat.</li> <li>Old Melbourne Memories.</li> <li>My Run Home.</li> <li>The Crooked Stick.</li> <li>Plain Living.</li> </ul> By ROSA N. CAREY. <ul><li>Nellie's Memories.</li> <li>Wee Wifie.</li> <li>Barbara Heathcote's Trial.</li> <li>Robert Ord's Atonement.</li> <li>Wooed and Married.</li> <li>Heriot's Choice.</li> <li>Queenie's Whim.</li> <li>Mary St. John.</li> <li>Not Like Other Girls.</li> <li>For Lilias.</li> <li>Uncle Max.</li> <li>Only the Governess.</li> <li>Lover or Friend?</li> <li>Basil Lyndhurst.</li> <li>Sir Godfrey's Grand-daughters.</li> <li>The Old Old Story.</li> <li>Mistress of Brae Farm.</li> <li>Mrs. Romney, and But Men Must Work.</li> </ul> [263] By Mrs. CRAIK. (The Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman.") <ul><li>Olive.</li> <li>The Ogilvies.</li> <li>Agatha's Husband.</li> <li>Head of the Family.</li> <li>Two Marriages.</li> <li>The Laurel Bush.</li> <li>About Money, and other Things.</li> <li>My Mother and I.</li> <li>Miss Tommy: A Mediaeval Romance.</li> <li>King Arthur: not a Love Story.</li> <li>Concerning Men, and other Papers.</li> </ul> By F. MARION CRAWFORD. <ul><li>Mr. Isaacs.</li> <li>Dr. Claudius.</li> <li>A Roman Singer.</li> <li>Zoroaster.</li> <li>Marzio's Crucifix.</li> <li>A Tale of a Lonely Parish.</li> <li>Paul Patoff.</li> <li>With the Immortals.</li> <li>Greifenstein.</li> <li>Sant' Ilario.</li> <li>A Cigarette-Maker's Romance.</li> <li>Khaled.</li> <li>The Three Fates.</li> <li>The Witch of Prague.</li> <li>Children of the King.</li> <li>Marion Darche.</li> <li>Pietro Ghisleri.</li> <li>Katharine Lauderdale.</li> <li>Don Orsino.</li> <li>The Ralstons.</li> <li>Casa Braccio.</li> <li>Adam Johnstone's Son.</li> <li>A Rose of Yesterday.</li> <li>Taquisara.</li> </ul> By Sir H. CUNNINGHAM. <ul><li>The Heriots.</li> <li>Wheat and Tares.</li> <li>The Coeruleans.</li> </ul> By CHARLES DICKENS. <ul><li>The Pickwick Papers.</li> <li>Oliver Twist.</li> <li>Nicholas Nickleby.</li> <li>Martin Chuzzlewit.</li> <li>The Old Curiosity Shop.</li> <li>Barnaby Rudge.</li> <li>Dombey and Son.</li> <li>Christmas Books.</li> <li>Sketches by Boz.</li> <li>David Copperfield.</li> <li>American Notes and Pictures from Italy.</li> <li>The Letters of Charles Dickens.</li> <li>Bleak House.</li> <li>Little Dorrit.</li> </ul> [264] <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/i004.jpg" width-obs="228" height-obs="300" alt="Miss Rosa N. Carey." title="Miss Rosa N. Carey." /> Miss Rosa N. Carey.</div> 'ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS.' Re-issue in 13 vols. <table class="books" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Booklist"> <tr><td class="tcol1">Vol. I.</td><td align="left">Chaucer, Spenser, Dryden.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">II.</td><td align="left">Milton, Goldsmith, Cowper.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">III.</td><td align="left">Byron, Shelley, Keats.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">IV.</td><td align="left">Wordsworth, Southey, Landor.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">V.</td><td align="left">Lamb, Addison, Swift.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">VI.</td><td align="left">Scott, Burn, Coleridge.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">VII.</td><td align="left">Hume, Locke, Burke.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">VIII.</td><td align="left">Defoe, Sterne, Hawthorne.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">IX.</td><td align="left">Fielding, Thackeray, Dickens.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">X.</td><td align="left">Gibbon, Carlyle, Macaulay.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">XI.</td><td align="left">Sidney, De Quincey, Sheridan.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">XII.</td><td align="left">Pope, Johnson, Gray.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">XIII.</td><td align="left">Bacon, Bunyan, Bentley.</td></tr> </table> By DEAN FARRAR. <ul><li>Seekers after God.</li> <li>Eternal Hope.</li> <li>The Fall of Man.</li> <li>The Witness of History to Christ.</li> <li>The Silence and Voices of God.</li> <li>In the Days of thy Youth.</li> <li>Saintly Workers.</li> <li>Ephphatha.</li> <li>Mercy and Judgment.</li> <li>Sermons and Addresses.</li> </ul> By BRET HARTE. <ul><li>Cressy.</li> <li>The Heritage of Dedlow Marsh.</li> <li>A First Family of Tasajara.</li> </ul> By THOMAS HUGHES. <ul><li>Tom Brown's School Days.</li> <li>Tom Brown at Oxford.</li> <li>The Scouring of the White Horse, and the Ashen Faggot.</li> </ul> By HENRY JAMES. <ul><li>A London Life.</li> <li>The Aspen Papers, etc.</li> <li>The Tragic Muse.</li> </ul> By ANNIE KEARY. <ul><li>Castle Daly.</li> <li>A York and a Lancaster Rose.</li> <li>Oldbury.</li> <li>A Doubting Heart.</li> <li>Janet's Home.</li> <li>Nations round Israel.</li> </ul> [265] By CHARLES KINGSLEY. <ul><li>Westward Ho!</li> <li>Hypatia.</li> <li>Yeast.</li> <li>Alton Locke.</li> <li>Two Years Ago.</li> <li>Hereward the Wake.</li> <li>Poems.</li> <li>The Heroes.</li> <li>The Water Babies.</li> <li>Madam How and Lady Why.</li> <li>At Last.</li> <li>Prose Idylls.</li> <li>Plays and Puritans, etc.</li> <li>The Roman and the Teuton.</li> <li>Sanitary and Social Lectures and Essays.</li> <li>Historical Lectures and Essays.</li> <li>Scientific Lectures and Essays.</li> <li>Literary and General Lectures.</li> <li>The Hermits.</li> <li>Glaucus: or the Wonders of The Seashore.</li> <li>Village and Town and Country Sermons.</li> <li>The Water of Life, and other Sermons.</li> <li>Sermons on National Subjects, and the King of the Earth.</li> <li>Sermons for the Times.</li> <li>Good News of God.</li> <li>The Gospel of the Pentateuch, and David.</li> <li>Discipline, and other Sermons.</li> <li>Westminster Sermons.</li> <li>All Saints' Day, and other Sermons.</li> </ul> By FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. <ul><li>Sermons Preached in Lincoln's Inn Chapel. In 6 vols.</li> <li>Christmas Day, and other Sermons.</li> <li>Theological Essays.</li> <li>Prophets and Kings.</li> <li>Patriarchs and Lawgivers.</li> <li>The Gospel of the Kingdom of Heaven.</li> <li>Gospel of St. John.</li> <li>Epistles of St. John.</li> <li>Friendship of Books.</li> <li>Prayer Book and Lord's Prayer.</li> <li>The Doctrine of Sacrifice.</li> <li>Acts of the Apostles.</li> </ul> By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. <ul><li>Aunt Rachel.</li> <li>He Fell among Thieves. D. C. Murray and H. Hermann.</li> <li>John Vale's Guardian.</li> <li>Schwartz.</li> <li>The Weaker Vessel.</li> </ul> By Mrs. OLIPHANT. <ul><li>A Beleaguered City.</li> <li>Joyce.</li> <li>Neighbours on the Green.</li> <li>Kirsteen.</li> <li>Hester.</li> <li>Sir Tom.</li> <li>A Country Gentleman and his Family.</li> <li>The Curate in Charge.</li> <li>The Second Son.</li> <li>He that Will Not when He May.</li> <li>The Railway Man and his Children.</li> <li>The Marriage of Elinor.</li> <li>The Heir-Presumptive and the Heir-Apparent.</li> <li>A Son of the Soil.</li> <li>The Wizard's Son.</li> <li>Young Musgrave.</li> <li>Lady William.</li> </ul> [266] <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/i005.jpg" width-obs="226" height-obs="300" alt="Miss C. M. Yonge." title="Miss C. M. Yonge." /> Miss C. M. Yonge.</div> By Mrs. PARR. <ul><li>Adam and Eve.</li> <li>Loyalty George.</li> <li>Dorothy Fox.</li> <li>Robin.</li> </ul> By J. H. SHORTHOUSE. <ul><li>John Inglesant.</li> <li>Sir Percival.</li> <li>The Little Schoolmaster Mark.</li> <li>The Countess Eve.</li> <li>A Teacher of the Violin.</li> <li>Blanche, Lady Falaise.</li> </ul> By J. TIMBS. <ul><li>Lives of Statesmen.</li> <li>Lives of Painters.</li> <li>Doctors and Patients.</li> <li>Wits and Humourists. 2 vols.</li> </ul> By MONTAGU WILLIAMS. <ul><li>Leaves of a Life.</li> <li>Later Leaves.</li> <li>Round London.</li> </ul> By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. <ul><li>The Heir of Redclyffe.</li> <li>Heartsease.</li> <li>Hopes and Fears.</li> <li>Dynevor Terrace.</li> <li>The Daisy Chain.</li> <li>The Trial: More Links of the Daisy Chain.</li> <li>Pillars of the House. Vol. I.</li> <li>Pillars of the House. Vol. II.</li> <li>The Young Stepmother.</li> <li>The Clever Woman of the Family.</li> <li>The Three Brides.</li> <li>My Young Alcides.</li> <li>The Caged Lion.</li> <li>Stray Pearls.</li> <li>The Dove in the Eagle's Nest.</li> <li>The Chaplet of Pearls.</li> <li>Lady Hester, and the Danvers Papers.</li> <li>Magnum Bonum.</li> <li>Love and Life.</li> <li>Unknown to History.</li> <li>The Armourer's 'Prentices.</li> <li>The Two Sides of the Shield.</li> <li>Scenes and Characters.</li> <li>Nuttie's Father.</li> <li>Chantry House.</li> <li>A Modern Telemachus.</li> <li>Bye-Words.</li> <li>More Bye-Words.</li> <li>Beechcroft at Rockstone.</li> <li>A Reputed Changeling.</li> <li>The Little Duke.</li> <li>The Lances of Lynwood.</li> <li>The Prince and the Page.</li> <li>P's and Q's, and Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe.</li> <li>Two Penniless Princesses.</li> <li>That Stick.</li> <li>Grisly Grisell.</li> <li>An Old Woman's Outlook.</li> <li>The Long Vacation.</li> <li>The Release.</li> <li>Pilgrimage of the Ben Beriah.</li> <li>Henrietta's Wish.</li> <li>The Two Guardians.</li> </ul> [267] By VARIOUS WRITERS. <div class="txt90"> Canon ATKINSON.—The Last of the Giant Killers. Sir S. W. BAKER.—True Tales for my Grandsons. R. H. D. BARHAM.—Life of Rev. R. H. Barham.—Life of Theodore Hook. R. BLENNERHASSETT and L. SLEEMAN.—Adventures in Mashonaland. Sir HENRY LYTTON BULWER (Lord DALLING).—Historical Characters. HUGH CONWAY.—Living or Dead?—A Family Affair. Sir MORTIMER DURAND, K.C.I.E.—Helen Treveryan. LANOE FALCONER.—Cecilia de Noël. ARCHIBALD FORBES.—Barracks, Bivouacs, and Battles.—Souvenirs of Some Continents. W. FORBES-MITCHELL.—Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny, 1857-59. W. W. FOWLER.—A Year with the Birds. Rev. J. GILMORE.—Storm Warriors. HENRY KINGSLEY.—Tales of Old Travel. AMY LEVY.—Reuben Sachs. S. R. LYSAGHT.—The Marplot. LORD LYTTON.—The Ring of Amasis. M. M'LENNAN.—Muckle Jock, and other Stories of Peasant Life. LUCAS MALET.—Mrs. Lorimer. GUSTAVE MASSON.—A French Dictionary. A. B. MITFORD.—Tales of Old Japan. MARY R. MITFORD.—Recollections of a Literary Life. Major G. PARRY.—The Story of Dick. E. C. PRICE.—In the Lion's Mouth. W. C. RHOADES.—John Trevennick. W. CLARK RUSSELL.—Marooned.—A Strange Elopement. THE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE.—Vol. I. Comedies. Vol. II. Histories. Vol. III. Tragedies. 3 vols. MARCHESA THEODOLI.—Under Pressure. "TIMES!"—Biographies of Eminent Persons. In 6 vols.—Annual Summaries. In 2 vols. Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD.—Miss Bretherton. C. WHITEHEAD.—Richard Savage. </div> [268] <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/i006.jpg" width-obs="204" height-obs="300" alt="Sir Walter Scott." title="Sir Walter Scott." /> Sir Walter Scott.</div> Now Ready. Crown 8vo, tastefully bound in Green Cloth, Gilt, in which binding any of the Novels may be bought separately, price 3s. 6d. each. Also in Special Cloth Binding, Flat Backs, Gilt Tops, supplied in Sets only of 24 Volumes, price £4 4s. The Illustrated Border Edition OF THE Waverley Novels Edited with Introductory Essays and Notes to each Novel (supplementing those of the Author) by Andrew Lang. With 250 Original Illustrations from Drawings and Paintings specially executed by eminent Artists. <h3>List of the Volumes.</h3> <table class="books" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Booklist"> <tr><td class="tcol1">1.</td><td align="left">Waverley.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">2.</td><td align="left">Guy Mannering.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">3.</td><td align="left">The Antiquary.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">4.</td><td align="left">Rob Roy.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">5.</td><td align="left">Old Mortality.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">6.</td><td align="left">The Heart of Midlothian.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">7.</td><td align="left">A Legend of Montrose, and The Black Dwarf.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">8.</td><td align="left">The Bride of Lammermoor.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">9.</td><td align="left">Ivanhoe.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">10.</td><td align="left">The Monastery.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">11.</td><td align="left">The Abbot.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">12.</td><td align="left">Kenilworth.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">13.</td><td align="left">The Pirate.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">14.</td><td align="left">The Fortunes of Nigel.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">15.</td><td align="left">Peveril of the Peak.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">16.</td><td align="left">Quentin Durward.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">17.</td><td align="left">St. Ronan's Well.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">18.</td><td align="left">Redgauntlet.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">19.</td><td align="left">The Betrothed, and the Talisman.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">20.</td><td align="left">Woodstock.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">21.</td><td align="left">The Fair Maid of Perth.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">22.</td><td align="left">Anne of Geierstein.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">23.</td><td align="left">Count Robert of Paris, and The Surgeon's Daughter.</td></tr> <tr><td class="tcol1">24.</td><td align="left">Castle Dangerous, Chronicles of the Canongate, etc.</td></tr> </table> <h3>Some of the Artists contributing to the "Border Edition."</h3> <ul><li>Sir J. E. Millais, Bart, P.R.A.</li> <li>Lockhart Bogle.</li> <li>Gordon Browne.</li> <li>D. Y. Cameron.</li> <li>Frank Dadd, R.I.</li> <li>R. de Los Rios.</li> <li>Herbert Dicksee.</li> <li>M. L. Gow, R.I.</li> <li>W. B. Hole, R.S.A.</li> <li>John Pettie, R.A.</li> <li>Sir James De Linton, P.R.I.</li> <li>Ad Lalauze.</li> <li>J. E. Lauder, R.S.A.</li> <li>W. Hatherell, R.I.</li> <li>Sam Bough, R.S.A.</li> <li>W. E. Lockhart, R.S.A.</li> <li>R. W. Macbeth, A.R.A.</li> <li>H. Macbeth-Raeburn.</li> <li>J. Macwhirter, A.R.A., R.S.A.</li> <li>W. Q. Orchardson, R.A.</li> <li>James Orrock, R.I.</li> <li>Walter Paget.</li> <li>Sir George Reid, P.R.S.A.</li> <li>Frank Short.</li> <li>W. Strang.</li> <li>Sir Henry Raeburn, R.A., P.R.S.A.</li> <li>Arthur Hopkins, A.R.W.S.</li> <li>R. Herdman, R.S.A.</li> <li>D. Herdman.</li> <li>Hugh Cameron, R.S.A.</li> </ul> MACMILLAN & CO., Limited, LONDON </div> <div class="tr"> <h4>Transcriber's Notes:</h4> Minor punctuation corrections have been made without comment. A Table of Contents has been created by the transcriber to aid reader navigation in this e-text. Word Variations: <div class="blockquot"> "carcase(s)" (2) (Br. sp.) and "carcass" (1) "Khaled ibn Walid" (1) and "Khaled ibn Walad" (1) (both referred to as "the Sword of the Lord") </div> </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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