The next moment the two men were racing hand in hand through the mad whirl outside. How they ran! They must have beaten many records. Stumbling, falling, bewildered, with the wind tearing and wrenching at their backs they raced. Death wheeled on all sides of them. The lightning struck the ground ten yards in front, trees crashed across their path, flying débris whistled about their heads. On, on, they held, the excitement of the tumult got into their blood-it mounted to their brains. They were exalted-drawn out of themselves. They shouted as they ran. It was like a battle in a dream. Away, away! Up one steep incline and down another; over dry nullah beds and skirting whipping cane-brakes. Arcay's right arm had lost all feeling. He was drowsy physically, and his whole body was becoming as dead and divorced from his thoughts as the wounded arm, yet his mind was alive, awfully alive and awake under the spur of the mad excitement that kept him panting and struggling on. It seemed to them they had been running for hours; especially to Arcay, who began to feel the racking reality of lungs straining for air. They had made a detour out of the jungle, but now they were in it again; the face of the land was changed nevertheless. Under the lashing trees sticky pools caught and betrayed their feet. They fell, they slipped, they rose, with a growing effort each time, still they floundered, and groped, and scrambled on, till at last Arcay failed to rise. He lay half dead with fatigue on the slimy bank of a pool. Somehow or another Durbrow lifted him out. Arcay!' • Come on, But Arcay, with an agonising catch in his breath, pushed feebly at the compelling hand. Then he drew the other's head to his lips. I tell you I'm done! I can't! It's no use,' he whispered. 'Durbrow, you're a better man than I am. I see it now. And she, too, will see it some day!' 'Here, lean against me! I believe there's something left in my flask,' gasped Durbrow. 'You've done one record, old chap. No man bitten by a four-foot cobra has ever survived as long as this unless he meant to survive for good. You'll be able to start again in a minute.' Arcay's eyes ached. He told himself that he was not in any way the equal of the staunch man at his side. But he took heart, and the wild stampede began again. The wind behind them rushed them on remorselessly. Arcay's arm was bleeding slowly drop by drop unheeded. Presently they noticed that the thunder was growling from further and further away, though the lightning still lit up the black vault of branches above them. The pace of the runners slackened-their throats were rising, their hearts bursting, still they ploughed on. And then-and then the wild noises lulled, and in five more minutes they were cowering under the first lash of the rain. When the dawn began to struggle with the thunder-cloud the rain was over. Full yellow day came, and the sun shot out over a world athrob and steaming with the pulse of glowing growth. Durbrow looked into his companion's eyes. They lacked the dull glaze of a sick man's. They were weary-that was all. said Durbrow. 'It is five hours since,' Arcay closed his eyes. he said; but I sha'n't die. 'I'm too tired to think it over now,' Your doing, old man!' Whether it was the immediate cutting out of the bite, or the brandy, or the run in the sting and lash of the storm that saved Arcay, no one will ever know for certain. Perhaps all three had their share in the victory of energy over death. The distance covered by the two men in five hours taxed them heavily to retrace in treble that time. Indeed they might have dreamed the whole frantic desperate race but for Arcay's wounded arm and the dead cobra in the ruins. K. and HESKETH PRICHARD (E. and H. HERON). THE KING'S DEATH. The sleeping chamber of the King: a candle burns dimly by the curtained bed. The arras stirs and two slaves enter with daggers. A storm of wind rages without. First Slave: He sleeps! Second Slave: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse To dread unsleeping in another world. First Slave: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful, As if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives. Second Slave: Yea! we have crouched so close in quaking dark I scarce can raise mine arm: thou must strike first. First Slave: The heavy, rolling hours have crushed my strength; The hate, that burst to such an eager flame Within my heart, has smouldered to dull ash, Which pity breathes to scatter. Second Slave: Knoweth he pity? First Slave: Nay! he is throned above his slaughtered kin, A reeking sword his sceptre! He hath broken, As one across the knee a faggot snaps, Strong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition! Yet, shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him For whom kings sweat as slaves? Second Slave: Yea! at thy stroke First Slave: How still he sleeps! The tempest shrieks to wake him, yet he slumbers. As seas that foam against unyielding scaurs The mad winds storm the castle, wall and tower, It rushes wailing down the corridor; It seeks the King-it cries on him to waken; I feel it in my hair; 'twill lay cold fingers Second Slave: And now it fails: the heavy, hanging gold "Twas but a breeze To blow our sinking courage to clear fire! [They approach the bed and draw aside the curtain. First Slave: The King! how still he sleeps! Can majesty in such calm slumber lie? Second Slave: Come, falter not, strike home! First Slave: For death has stolen a march upon our hate. He doth not breathe! Second Slave: Hold! Hold thy hand, The stars have wrought for us, And we are conquerors with unbloodied hands! First Slave: Nay! Nay! For in our thoughts his life was spilt: While yet our bodies lagged in fettered fear, Our shafted breath sped on and stabbed his sleep. Oh! red for all the world, across our brows Our murderous thoughts have burnt the brand of Cain! See, through the window stares the pitiless day! WILFRID WILSON GIBSON. CONFERENCES ON BOOKS AND MEN. XIV. THE LEGEND OF MACCONGLINNE. I FOUND myself a few days since called upon to give the loyal toast at the annual dinner of a society which, from causes which I need not go into, happens to reckon among its members a large proportion of Irishmen. It was inevitable to refer to the Royal visit to Dublin; but wishing to do so in terms which might be as little as possible suggestive of the daily newspaper, while they should appeal with peculiar force to my company, I made use of the following expression: May Her Gracious Majesty prove the MacConglinne of this generation to the Irish people.' The toast, I need not say, was drunk with Celtic enthusiasm, but I could gather from not a few indications that my reference had not been appreciated; and my immediate neighbour asked me to write down the exact words of my toast to save any blunder that might arise from the ignorance of English reporters. I determined, therefore, to take an early opportunity of introducing to my friends this delightful legend, both for its own sake and also because it illustrates several idiosyncrasies of the Irish character, and among them, as it seems to me, the thoroughness of Celtic humour. I mean this: an Englishman's humour is, as its name implies, a temperament or a mood; and it gives place to other moods, such as choler. If an Englishman is in his choleric vein and disposed to kill you, your best way of escape is to arouse his dormant humour, for if he laughs you are safe. With a Celt, on the other hand, in the same circumstances there would be no security in his laughter; for in a Celt choler and humour are not mutually displacing. The Englishmen who have been renowned for their humour have generally been peaceable souls, not easily provoked, like Shakespeare, whose constant epithet among his contemporaries was gentle,' or Sir Thomas More, or the irreverend Mr. Sterne. But to come to MacConglinne. His legend concerns his exorcising a demon of voracity from an ancient king of Munster, called Cathal. It descends to us in two forms, one terse and one |