in recovering itself, clumsily kicked a great stone with such forcé that he shattered it to a hundred pieces, and then stood on three legs, awkwardly swinging his hoof in a way that horses have when the bone has been jarred. In a moment the colonel dismounted, and felt the injured leg carefully.

'My friend,' he said kindly, you are a fool. What are you doing? Name of a dog'—he paused, and collecting the pieces of broken quartz, threw them away into the brush-name of a dog, what are you doing?'

With an odd laugh Colonel Gilbert climbed into the saddle again, and although he looked carefully up at the Casa Perucca, he failed to see Mademoiselle Brun's grey face amid the grey shadows of an olive-tree. The horse limped at first, but presently forgot his grievance against the big stone that had lain in his path. The colonel laughed to himself in a singular way more than once at the seemingly trivial accident, and, on regaining the path, turned in his saddle to look again at the spot where it had occurred.

On nearing the château he urged his horse to a better pace, and reached the great door at a sharp trot. He rang the bell without dismounting, and leisurely quitted the saddle. But the summons was not immediately answered. He jerked at the chain. again, and rattled on the door with the handle of his riding-whip. At length the bolts were withdrawn, and the heavy door opened sufficiently to admit a glance of that evil eye which the peasants did not care to face.

Before speaking, the colonel made a step forward, so that his foot must necessarily prevent the closing of the door.

'The Count de Vasselot,' said he.

'Take away your foot,' replied Jean.

The colonel noted with a good-natured surprise the position. of his stout riding-boot, and withdrew it.

'The Count de Vasselot,' he repeated. 'You need not trouble, my friend, to tell any lies or to look at me with your evil eye. I know the count is here, for I saw him in Paris just before he came, and I spoke to him at this very door a few weeks ago. He knows me, and I think you know me too, my friend. Tell your master I have news from France. He will see me.'

Jean unceremoniously closed the door, and the colonel, who was moving away towards his horse, turned sharply on his heel when he heard the bolts being surreptitiously pushed back again.

Ah!' he said, and he stood outside the door with his hand

at his moustache, reflectively following Jean's movements, they are singularly careful to keep me out, these people.'

He had not long to wait, however, for presently Lory came, stepping quickly over the high threshold and closing the door behind him. But Gilbert was taller than de Vasselot, and could see over his head. He looked right through the house into the little garden on the terrace, and saw some one there who was not Jean. And the light of surprise was still in his eyes as he shook hands with Lory de Vasselot.

'You have news for me?' inquired de Vasselot.

'News for every Frenchman.'

'Ah!'

'Yes. The emperor has declared war against Germany.' 'War!' echoed Lory, with a sudden laugh.

'Yes; and your regiment is the first on the list.'

'I know, I know!' cried de Vasselot, his eyes alight with excitement. But this is good news that you tell me. How can I thank you for coming? I must get home-I mean to France at once. But this is great news!' He seized the colonel's hand and shook it. Great news, mon colonel-great news!'

'Good news for you, for you are going. But I shall be left behind as usual. Yes; it is good news for you.'

'And for France,' cried Lory, with both hands outspread, as

if to indicate the glory that was awaiting them.

For France,' said the colonel gravely, 'it cannot fail to be bad. But we must not think of that now.'

6

We shall never think of it,' answered Lory. 'This is Monday; there is a boat for Marseilles to-night. I leave Bastia to-night, colonel.'

'And I must get back there,' said the colonel, holding out his hand.

He rode thoughtfully back by the shortest route through the Lancone Defile, and, as he approached Bastia, from the heights behind the town he saw the steamer that would convey Lory to France coming northward from Bonifacio.

'Yes,' he said; he will leave Bastia to-night; and assuredly the good God, or the devil, helps me at every turn of this affair."

(To be continued.)

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY 1900.

THE SIRENS.

FROM no grim ancient headland blossom-crowned,
Seen ever through a fleeting foamy veil,

No lineless sand that girds the bay around

Where the wind's threats and clamours pause and fail,
But from the green trough of the surges, sound
The Sirens' voices in a landward hail,

Far out where wind and wave play lustily,
And draw the hearts of landsmen to the sea.

Of old the Sirens promised peace and rest

To men with many a weary league forlorn,
And cot and vineyard on the land's kind breast
For heaving deck and sail storm-lashed and torn,
For the black barren crag where sea-winds nest
Fair slopes of joyous grass and fields of corn,
Earth's brides and roses in a sheltered vale
For the cold weed and sea-nymphs lank and pale.

But we whom careless fate in life has set

Like ships becalmed beneath a windless sky, Who, wrapped in irksome ease, still chafe and fret While void of noble deeds the days go by,

VOL. VIII.-NO. 47, N.8.

25

Who hate the listless hours and claim the debt

Life owes to Youth while yet his blood is high— What promise wedded to what melodies

Hear we to draw our hearts across the seas?

Songs that the shock of meeting waves repeat,

Splash of the spray, hiss of the plunging prow, Roar of the trade winds going with steady feet, Glamour of tropic coasts and fields of snow, And of the line where sky and water meet

Past which lies all the world to see and knowThrough these with smile austere looks Danger's face Charming our hearts to draw to her embrace.

Lured by the chant, the ancient sailor found

Death waiting on the green melodious shore,
The sweet song swelled to triumph as he drowned,
And the tides roll his bones for evermore.
He knew not: but we know the voices sound

That sing to us, beside Death's very door.
Yet while our blood is young, come Death or no,
The Sirens call and call-and we must go.

WALTER HOGG.

MR. BENSON AND SHAKESPEAREAN DRAMA.

BY SIDNEY LEE.

DRAMATIC criticism in the daily press often resembles that method of conversation of which Bacon wrote that it seeks 'rather commendation of wit, in being able to hold argument, than of judgment, in discerning what is true.' Mr. Benson, who, with his company of Shakespearean actors, set up his tents in London at the Lyceum Theatre in the middle of February, and is still encamped there, has made abundant sport for the journalistic censors who aim at commendation of wit.' Occasionally the wags have brought the dramatist himself, whose mighty work Mr. Benson endeavours to interpret, within the compass of their fleers. But, happily, here they have found themselves overmatched, for Shakespeare

is as the air invulnerable,

And their vain blows malicious mockery.

Some, however, of the better-ballasted of Mr. Benson's critics, who are incapable of the empty-headed sin of flouting Shakespeare, have betrayed, in my opinion, a lack of judgment in concentrating attention on unquestionable defects in Mr. Benson's practice, to the neglect of the vital principles which are the justification of his presence in London. Mr. Benson's principles have been largely ignored, but they are not wisely disregarded; they are matters of urgent public interest, and they cannot be too often pressed on public notice.

These, in my view, are the five points of the charter which Mr. Benson is championing.

Firstly, it is to the benefit of the nation that Shakespeare's plays should be acted constantly and in their variety.

Secondly, a theatrical manager who undertakes to produce Shakespearean drama should change his programme at frequent intervals, and should permit no long continuous run of any single play.

Thirdly, all the parts, whatever their significance, should be entrusted to exponents who have been trained in the delivery of