"It is the custom here, when my friends come to see me, that they send beforehand to tell me. Then I prepare food for them, that they may rest and eat after their journey. You did not send to me and nothing has been prepared, but I have told my 'boys,' and soon they will bring some food for the great ones amongst you." No response from "The Silent Ones." The Padre

went on

"It is not the custom for honest men to come unannounced, with arms, in the middle of the night, to see their friend. But you, no doubt, have good reason. What is it?" And he paused,

vainly, for reply.

"Then, since you won't tell me, I'll tell you. You are murderers. You are cowards. Like the hyæna you skulk in the shadows by day. You fly before a child with a stick in the sunlight. You are no men. In all of you there is not so much pluck as in one small dog. You call together a great band, and secretly by night you crawl about in the bush till the devil gives you courage to fall upon a sleeping man. Pah! I spit upon you." And he spat.

"You have come to murder me. I am but one, unarmed. You are many, and in your hands I see spears and knives and axes. It is night, and your father the devil has given you all the courage you can hold, apes that you are. Come then and kill me. You bushmen!" And he spat again.

With a gesture of contempt, "You fear to touch me," he said. "Why? See, I have no stick! You curs! I called you hyænas. I flattered you! You are mice!"

And the small missionary told them off in this strain for other ten minutes. He was of an eloquence, this Moulain! His address finished, he paused for some moments. Still from "The Silent Ones" there came no sign nor sound.

They

"Stand up!" he thundered. started to their feet. "There is the road back to the bush. Follow it!" No man moved.

"Follow it!" he roared, with imperious gesture in the direction. And the mass, moving native fashion, in single file, slunk off. The Padre watched the last of them depart, and went back to the Mission, where, after a search, he discovered Father Ridout hiding under his bed. He addressed him shortly, and went himself back again to bed.

afternoon,

Late in the following dusty, hot, tired beyond expression, there arrived Captain Jervis with a small column sent up in all haste from the settlement. The soldiers expected to find the place in ruins, and Jervis thought himself the victim of a false alarm when the Fathers came running out of the Mission to greet him. They escorted him and the three white officers with him to the veranda, gave to each a chair and a long cool drink, and then Father Ridout withdrew. Moulain narrated the events of the previous day, "and," he ended, "when you see Father Ridout please take no notice of him. Do not speak to him. For one week he is a 'boy,' he will take his meals with the 'boys,' and he is forbidden to speak to me or to any white man during that time."

"Come, come, now," said Jervis. "That's very hard on the little man. Certainly it wasn't very brave to go and hide under the bed, but he's very young, he's fresh to the country, and we have it on the best authority that it's not given to many men to be plucky at 2 A.M. And he isn't a soldier anyway."

"I beg your pardon," said Moulain very gravely. "He is a soldier, much more even than you are."

There resulted from the episode four several things. First, the power and prestige of "The Silent Ones" were

for ever destroyed in that neighborhood, and they went raiding there never again. Second, Jervis and his officers subscribed together and bought for Father Moulain the very latest pattern revolver, with hundreds and hundreds of cartridges. Third, the governing body of the company at home, who had the reputation of being very nearly the meanest upon earth, stirred by Jervis's report, bought a very handsome gold watch, paid for a most eloquent inscription that completely covered the back of it, and sent it out Blackwood's Magazine.

with orders to the greatest of their servants that he was to make a special journey for the purpose and present it to the Father with all possible ceremony. Fourth, and last, Father Moulain is to-day the head of a large and flourishing Mission at the scene of his encounter with "The Silent Ones." He says that there are only three useless things on the Mission-viz., himself, the revolver, and the watch, which took a dislike to West Africa soon after reaching him and has never worked from that day to this.

III. "AT DEAD OF NIGHT." The stage is in semi-darkness as Dick Trayle throws open the window from outside, puts his knee on the sill, and falls carefully into the drawing-room of Beeste Hall. He is dressed in a knickerbocker suit with arrows on it (such as can always be borrowed from a friend), and, to judge from the noises which he emits, is not in the best of training. The lights go on suddenly; and he should seize this moment to stagger to the door and turn on the switch. This done he sinks into the nearest chair and closes his eyes.

If he has been dancing very late the night before he may drop into a peaceful sleep; in which case the play ends here. Otherwise, no sooner are his eyes closed than he opens them with a sudden start and looks round in terror. Dick (striking the keynote at once). No, no! Let me out-I am innocent! (He gives a gasp of relief as he realizes the situation.) Free! It is true, then! I have escaped! I dreamed that I was back in prison again! (He shudders and helps himself to a large whisky-and-soda, which he swallows at a gulp.) That's better! Now I feel a new man-the

man I was three years ago. Three years! It has been a lifetime! (Pathelically to the audience.) Where is Millicent now?

[He falls into a reverie, from which he is suddenly wakened by a noise outside. He starts, and then creeps rapidly to the switch, arriving there at the moment when the lights go out. Thence he goes swiftly behind the window curtain. The lights go up again as Jasper Beeste comes in with a revolver in one hand and a bull's-eye lantern of apparently enormous candle power in the other. Jasper (in immaculate evening dress). I thought I heard a noise, so I slipped on some old things hurriedly and came down. (Fingering his perfectly-tied tie.) But there seems to be nobody here. (Turns round suddenly to the window.) Ha, who's there? Hands up, blow you(He ought to swear rather badly here, really)-hands up, or I fire!

[The stage is suddenly plunged into

darkness, there is the noise of a struggle, and the lights go on to rereal Jasper by the door covering Dick with his revolver.

Jasper. Let's have a little light on

you. (Brutally.) Now then, my man, what have you got to say for yourself? Ha! An escaped convict, eh?

Dick (to himself in amazement). Jasper Beeste!

Jasper. So you know my name?

Dick (in the tones of a man whose whole life has been blighted by the machinations of a false friend). Yes, Jasper Beeste, I know your name. For two years I have said it to myself every night, when I prayed Heaven that I should meet you again.

Jasper. Again? (Uneasily.) We have met before?

Dick (slowly). We have met before, Jasper Beeste. Since then I have lived a lifetime of misery. You may well fail to recognize me.

[Enter Millicent Wilsdon-in a dressing-gown, with her hair over her shoulders, if the county will stand it. Millicent (to Jasper). I couldn't sleep -I heard a noise-I-(suddenly seeing the other) Dick! (She trembles.)

Dick. Millicent! (He trembles too.)
Jasper. Trayle! (So does he.)

Dick (bitterly). You shrink from me, Millicent. (With strong common sense) What is an escaped convict to the beautiful Miss Wilsdon?

Millicent. Dick-I-you-when you

were sentenced

Dick. When I was sentenced-the evidence was black against me. I admit-I wrote and released you from your engagement. You are married now?

Millicent (throwing herself on a sofa). Oh, Dick!

Jasper (recovering himself). Enough of this. Miss Wilsdon is going to marry me to-morrow.

Dick. To marry you! (He strides over to the sofa and pulls Millicent to her feet.) Millicent, look me in the eyes! Do you love him? (She turns away.) Say "Yes" and I will go back quietly to my prison. (She raises her eyes to his.) Ha! I thought so! You 2656

LIVING AGE. VOL. LI.

Dick (wresting the revolver from his grasp). Ha, would you? Now stand over there and listen to me. (He arranges his audience, Millicent on a sofa on the right, Jasper, biting his finger nails, on the left.) Three years ago Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace was stolen. My flat was searched and the necklace was found in my hatbox. Although I protested my innocence I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years penal servitude, followed by fifteen years police supervision.

Millicent (raising herself on the sofu). Dick, you were innocent-I know it. (She flops back again.)

Dick. I was. But how could I prove it? I went to prison. For a year black despair gnawed at my heart. And then something happened. The prisoner in the cell next to mine tried to communicate with me by means of taps. We soon arranged a system and held conversations together. One day he told me of a robbery in which he and another man had been engaged→ the robbery of a diamond necklace. Jasper (jauntily). Well?

Dick (sternly). A diamond necklace, Jasper Beeste, which the other man hid in the ratbox of another man in order that he might woo the other man's fiancée! (Millicent shricks.)

Jasper (blusteringly). Bah!

Dick (quietly). The man in the cell next to mine wants to meet this gentleman again. It seems that he has some old scores to pay off. Jasper (sneeringly). And

he?

where is

Dick. Ah, where is he? (He goes to the window and gives a low whistle. A Stranger in knickerbockers jumps in and advances with a crab-like movement.) Good! here you are. Allow me to present you to Mr. Jasper Beeste.

Jasper (in horror). Two-toed Thomas! I am undone!

Two-toed Thomas (after a series of unintelligible snarls). Say the word, guv'nor, and I'll kill him. (He prowls round Jasper thoughtfully.)

Dick (sternly). Stand back! Now, Jasper Beeste, what have you to say?

Jasper (hysterically). I confess. I will sign anything. I will go to prison. Only keep that man off me.

Dick (going up to a bureau and writing aloud at incredible speed). "I, Jasper Beeste, of Beeste Hall, do hereby declare that I stole Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace and hid it in the hat-box of Richard Trayle; and I further declare that the said Richard Trayle is innocent of any complicity in the affair." (Advancing with the paper and a fountain pen.) Sign, please.

[Jasper signs. At this moment two warders burst into the room.

Punch.

First Warder. There they are!
[He seizes Dick. Two-toed Thomas
leaps from the window, pursued by
the second Warder. Millicent picks
up the confession and advances
dramatically.

Millicent. Do not touch that man! Read this!

[She hands him the confession with

an air of superb pride.

First Warder (reading). Jasper Beeste! (Slipping a pair of handcuffs on Jasper.) You come along with me, my man. We've had our suspicions of you for some time. (To Millicent, with a nod at Dick) You'll look after that gentleman, miss?

Millicent. Of course! Why, he's engaged to me. Aren't you Dick? Dick. This time, Millicent, for ever! Curtain.

A. A. M.

Sir Edward Grey's reputation as a dispassionate and reserved statesman enhances the influence of the cordial response which he has made to the suggestions of President Taft for an unreserved treaty of arbitration between the United States and this country. Mr. Taft's personal declarations in favor of this course, repeated upon at least two public occasions, carried, of course, no Governmental weight, and, indeed, were taken at the time as little more than pious aspirations. Edward Grey's favorable attitude has raised them at a single move on to the plane of practical politics. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that his declaration initiates a new stage in the history of international relations. For it is the first full and warm acceptation, on the part of a European Foreign Minister of the idea of substitut

Sir

ing a judicial settlement for the arbitrament of arms in the graver issues between two nations. Many of those who in this country and America give the kindest welcome to the idea do not appear adequately to appraise its intrinsic and particular importance. Such a treaty, if it can be brought about, would, in their opinion, be more valuable as an example than as an achievement. For to ordinary citizens the notion of actual hostilities between this country and America has come to appear so monstrous that it has been difficult to realize that any provocation could bring it to pass. Now this view implies not only a short memory, but a rather dangerous misreading of national psychology. The fact that only sixteen years ago the two nations were brought very suddenly to the very brink of war by the message of Pres

ident Cleveland on the Venezuela question, ought to suffice to remind us of the enormous value of an agreement which should secure the automatic "adjudication of International Arbitration Courts in every issue which cannot be settled by negotiation, no matter what it involves; whether honor, territory, or money." It is true that the relations between the two countries since that time have shown a marked increase of friendliness, and that the present time is peculiarly opportune for setting those relations upon a permanent basis of peace and law. But these movements of popular feeling are very fluctuating, and it would be a thousand pities not to utilize the genuine current of goodwill which prevails now in both peoples to give stability and firm co-operation to the future policy of the two great Anglo-Saxon States. For the opportuneness does not merely consist in the friendly sentiments which exist upon both sides of the Atlantic. The United States, within the last few years, has openly and rapidly abandoned her formal policy of seclusion, and has stepped out boldly to take her part in world politics. The territorial acquisitions which have accompanied this change are, perhaps, not the most important aspect of this new policy. The enlarged commercial career which, on attaining her present stage of industrial development, she was bound to enter, the approaching completion of the Panama Canal, and, we must add, the adoption of a naval policy which places her among the greatest Powers, combine to bring the United States into the full flood of international politics. As the territory, trade and financial exploitation of the Pacific come to play the larger part they must play in the international affairs of European Powers, the United States must more and more be drawn into the race. Her present and, we believe, her permanent desires

and interests make for peace. Her favorite spokesmen and advisers eagerly urge that she should enter her new career in the definite character of a peacemaker. But it would be foolish to disguise the risk that the nobler and more enduring tendency may be crossed and thwarted by one of those gusts of passion which sweep the ship of State out of its pre-ordained course, and bear it into perilous seas. One of the ablest recent analysts of American life observes that "in the attitude of the American towards foreign affairs, the love of peace and the delight in war combine to make a contrast which has rarely been seen."

If America is to be a real power for peace in the world, she cannot exercise that function by merely adding one more to the great armed Powers, scheming and struggling for trade and dominion. She can only do so by taking just that sort of initiative which President Taft desires. She can do so better than any other first-rate Power, precisely because she has hitherto stood aloof from "entangling alliances." It is natural and right that in her early tentative endeavor after this policy she should first approach Great Britain; for the common bonds of blood, language and institutions make this the line of least resistance and of most reliable co-operation. It has hitherto been impossible for representative statesmen in European nations to achieve the faith in ideas and the confidence in pacific tendencies requisite for the great step which America and England can take together for the cause of civilization. We do not forget that Mr. Taft has made no formal proposal, and that Sir Edward Grey accepted none. But though some organs of our Press speak in disparaging tones of the surrender of "sovereignty" involved in general arbitration, there can, we hold, be little doubt that a