Ailsa Paige. Chambers Robert William

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      Ailsa Paige: A Novel

TO THE CONQUERORS WHO WON IMMORTAL VICTORY

      "Arm yourselves and be Valiant Men, and see that ye rise up in readiness against the Dawn, that ye may do Battle with These that are Assembled against us. . . .

      "For it is better to die in Battle than live to behold the

      Calamities of our own People. . . ."

      "Lord, we took not the Land into Possession by our own Swords; neither was it our own Hands that helped us; but Thy Hand was a Buckler; and Thy right Arm a Shield, and the Light of Thy Countenance hath conquered forever."

AND TO THE VANQUISHED WHO WON IMMORTALITY

      "We are the fallen, who, with helpless faces

      Low in the dust, in stiffening ruin lay,

      Felt the hoofs beat, and heard the rattling traces

      As o'er us drove the chariots of the fray.

      "We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory,

      Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin,

      And with our last glance glimpsed the victor's glory

      For which we died, but dying might not win.

      "We were but men. Always our eyes were holden,

      We could not read the dark that walled us round,

      Nor deem our futile plans with Thine enfolden—

      We fought, not knowing God was on the ground.

      "Aye, grant our ears to bear the foolish praising

      Of men—old voices of our lost home-land,

      Or else, the gateways of this dim world, raising,

      Give us our swords again, and hold Thy hand."

—W. H. WOODS.

      PREFACE

      Among the fifty-eight regiments of Zouaves and the seven regiments of Lancers enlisted in the service of the United States between 1861 and 1865 it will be useless for the reader to look for any record of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers. The red breeches and red fezzes of the Zouaves clothed many a dead man on Southern battle-fields; the scarlet swallow-tailed pennon of the Lancers fluttered from many a lance-tip beyond the Potomac; the histories of these sixty-five regiments are known. But no history of the 3d Zouaves or of the 8th Lancers has ever been written save in this narrative; and historians and veterans would seek in vain for any records of these two regiments—regiments which might have been, but never were.

      CHAPTER I

      The butler made an instinctive movement to detain him, but he flung him aside and entered the drawing-room, the servant recovering his equilibrium and following on a run. Light from great crystal chandeliers dazzled him for a moment; the butler again confronted him but hesitated under the wicked glare from his eyes. Then through the brilliant vista, the young fellow caught a glimpse of a dining-room, a table where silver and crystal glimmered, and a great gray man just lowering a glass of wine from his lips to gaze at him with quiet curiosity.

      The next moment he traversed the carpeted interval between them and halted at the table's damask edge, gazing intently across at the solitary diner, who sat leaning back in an arm-chair, heavy right hand still resting on the stem of a claret glass, a cigar suspended between the fingers of his left hand.

      "Are you Colonel Arran?"

      "I am," replied the man at the table coolly. "Who the devil are you?"

      "By God," replied the other with an insolent laugh, "that's what I came here to find out!"

      The man at the table laid both hands on the edge of the cloth and partly rose from his chair, then fell back solidly, in silence, but his intent gaze never left the other's bloodless face.

      "Send away your servants, Colonel Arran!" said the young man in a voice now labouring under restraint. "We'll settle this matter now."

      The other made as though to speak twice; then, with an effort, he motioned to the butler.

      What he meant by the gesture perhaps he himself scarcely realised at the moment.

      The butler instantly signalled to Pim, the servant behind Colonel Arran's chair, and started forward with a furtive glance at his master; and the young man turned disdainfully to confront him.

      "Will you retire peaceably, sir?"

      "No, but you will retire permanently if you touch me. Be very careful."

      Colonel Arran leaned forward, hands still gripping the table's edge:

      "Larraway!"

      "Sir?"

      "You may go."

      The small gray eyes in the pock-pitted face stole toward young Berkley, then were cautiously lowered.

      "Very well, sir," he said.

      "Close the drawing-room doors. No—this way. Go out through the pantry. And take Pim with you."

      "Very well, sir."

      "And, Larraway!"

      "Sir?"

      "When I want you I'll ring. Until then I don't want anybody or anything. Is that understood?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "That is all."

      "Thank you, sir."

      The great mahogany folding doors slid smoothly together, closing out the brilliant drawing-room; the door of the butler's pantry clicked.

      Colonel Arran slowly wheeled in his place and surveyed his unbidden guest:

      "Well, sir," he said, "continue."

      "I haven't yet begun."

      "You are mistaken, Berkley; you have made a very significant beginning. I was told that you are this kind of a young man."

      "I am this kind of a young man. What else have you been told?"

      Colonel Arran inspected him through partly closed and heavy eyes; "I am further informed," he said, that at twenty-four you have already managed to attain bankruptcy."

      "Perfectly correct. What other items have you collected concerning me?"

      "You can retrace your own peregrinations if you care to. I believe they follow a vicious circle bisecting the semi-fashionable world, and the—other. Shall we say that the expression, unenviable notoriety, summarises the reputation you have acquired?"

      "Exactly," he said; "both kinds of vice, Colonel Arran—respectable and disreputable."

      "Oh! And am I correct in concluding that, at this hour, you stand there a financially ruined man—at twenty-four years of age–"

      "I do stand here; but I'm going to sit down."

      He did so, dropped both elbows on the cloth, and balancing his chin on the knuckles of his clasped hands, examined the older man with insolent, unchanging gaze.

      "Go on," he said coolly, "what else do you conclude me to be?"

      "What СКАЧАТЬ