The Mesmerist's Victim

For a long while he watched him till the chill morning breeze struck him. He thought of turning in, although the stranger only gazed on the dawning white.

“Up early, captain?” he said, seeing that worthy approach.

“I am always up.”

“Some of your passengers have beaten you this time.”

“You! but military officers are used to being up at all hours.”

“Oh, not me alone,” replied Philip. “Look at that deep dreamer; a passenger also?”

The Captain looked and was surprised.

“Who is he?” asked the Frenchman.

“Oh, a trader,” answered Paul Jones, embarrassed.

“Running after fortune eh? your brig sails too slowly for him.”

Instead of responding, the captain went forward straight to the brooder, to whom he spoke a few words, whereupon he disappeared down a companion-way.

“You disturbed his dreams,” said Taverney; “he was not in my way.”

“No, captain, I just told him that it was freshening and the breeze was killing. The forward-deck passengers are not so warmly clad as you and I.”

“How are we getting along, captain?”

“To-morrow we shall be off the Azores, at one of which we shall stop to take fresh water, for it is pretty warm.”

After twenty days out, they were glad to see any land.

“Gentleman,” said the captain to the passengers, “you have five hours to have a run ashore. On this little island completely uninhabited, you will find some frozen springs to amuse the naturalists and good shooting if you are sportsmen.”

Philip took a gun and ammunition and went ashore in one of the two boats carrying the merry visitors, delighted to tread the earth.

But the noise was not to his taste, no more than the pursuit of game so tame as to run against his legs, and he stopped to lounge in a cool grotto which was not the natural icehouse indicated.

He was still in reverie when he saw a shadow at the mouth of the cave. It was one of his fellow passengers. Though he had not been intimate with them, even withholding his name, he felt that here he was bound to extend the honor of the cave by right of discoverer.

He rose and offered his hand to this timid, stumbling figure whose fingers closed on his own in acceptance of the courtesy.

At the same time as the stranger’s face was shone in the twilight, Philip drew back and uttered an outcry in horror.

“Gilbert?”

“Philip!”

The soldier gripped the other by the throat, and dragged him deeper into the cavern. Gilbert allowed it to be done without a remonstrance. Thrust with his back against the rocks, he could be pushed no farther.

“God is just,” said Philip, “He hath delivered you to me. You shall not escape.”

The prisoner let his hands swing by his side and turned livid.

“Oh, coward and villain,” said the victor, “he has not even the instinct of the beast to defend himself.”

“Why should I defend myself?” returned Gilbert. “I am willing to die and by your hand foremost.”

“I will strangle you,” cried Philip fiercely: “why do you not defend yourself? coward, coward!”

With an effort Gilbert tore himself loose and sent the assaillant a yard away. Then he folded his arms.

“You see I could defend myself. But get your gun and shoot me straight. I prefer that to being torn and mangled.”

Philip was reaching for his gun but at these words he repulsed it.

“No,” he said, “how come you here?”

“Like yourself, on the Adonis.”

“Oh, you are the skulking thing who did not dine with the other passengers but took the air at night?”

“I was not hiding from you, for I did not know you were aboard.”

“But you were hiding, not only yourself but the child whom you stole away.”

“Babes are not taken to sea.”

“With the nurse, whom you were forced to engage.”

“I tell you I have not brought my child, which I removed only that it should not be brought up to despise its father.”

“If I could believe this true,” said Philip, “I should deem you less of a rogue; but you are a thief, why not a liar?”

“A man cannot steal his own property. And the child is mine!”

“Wretch, do you flout me? will you tell me where my sister’s child is? will you restore it to me?”

“I do not wish to give up my boy.”

“Gilbert, listen, I speak to you quietly. Andrea loves the child, your child, with frenzy. She will be touched by your repentance, I promise you. But restore the child, Gilbert.”

“You would not believe me and I shall not trust you,” rejoined Gilbert, with dull fire in his eyes and folding his arms: “Not because I do not believe you an honorable man but because you have the prejudices of your caste. We are mortal enemies and as you are the stronger, enjoy your victory. But do not ask me to lay down my arm; it guards me against scorn, insult and ingratitude.”

“I do not want to butcher you,” said the officer, with froth at the mouth: “but you shall have the chance to kill Andrea’s brother. One crime more will not matter. Take one of these pistols and let us count three, turn and fire.”

“A duel is just what I refuse Andrea’s brother,” said the young man, not stooping for the firearm.

“Then God will absolve me if I kill you. Die, like a villain, of whom I clear the world, a sacrilegious bandit, a dog!”