through the sweltering coastlands toward Lagos, Major de Beaujolais, highly pleased with the success of his neat and clever little coup, continued his story.
"Well, my George, figure me there, with this new astoundment, this extraordinary accompaniment to the sinister and bewildering mystery of an inexplicable murder and an inexplicable disappearance. . . .
And then, 'What is in the paper, might one respectfully enquire, mon Commandant,' asked the Sergeant-Major.
'The confession of a thief--that he stole a famous jewel,' I replied.
'Which was the thief?' said he.
'Oh, ask me some questions, my good imbecile!' said I. 'Ask me where the trumpeter is, and whose is this bayonet, and who disposed these dead men as defenders, and who fired two shots, and whether I am mad or dreaming,' I answered--and then pulled myself together. 'Now come with me,' I bade him. 'We will make one more search below, and then déjeuner, and a quiet, sensible, reasonable discussion of the facts, before we bury these brave fellows, detail an escouade of our men as garrison, and return to Tokotu. I shall leave you in command here until we get orders and reliefs.'
The Sergeant-Major looked distinctly dubious at this. 'Here--for weeks!' he said softly.
We made our tour below, and, as before, nothing unusual met the eye, and there was no sign of the trumpeter, alive or dead. We had seen him climb on to that parapet and apparently no living eye had beheld him again.
I was past wonder. I accepted things.
Very well, this was a place where Commandants are murdered by non-existent people; soldiers vanish like a whiff of smoke; and English letters concerning one's friends are found in the hands of dead Frenchmen. Very good. Be it so. We would 'carry on' as you say, and do our duty.
'Think hard--and be prepared to pick holes in the theories I shall propound an hour hence,' said I to the Sergeant-Major, as we passed out of the gate, and I proceeded to the oasis where my excellent Achmet had prepared my soup and coffee. . . .
You do not want to hear my theories, George, and there was no need for the Sergeant-Major to point out the impossibilities and absurdities in them. They leapt to the eye immediately.
It all came back to the bald facts that there must be a soldier of the garrison missing, that he must have taken his rifle and left his bayonet in the sous-officier, instead of shooting him and awaiting praise and reward; that my trumpeter had vanished; that the dead sous-officier had been in possession of a confession, real or bogus, to the effect that Michael Geste had stolen his aunt's famous sapphire.
There it was--and nothing but lunacy could result from theory-making about the sous-officier's murder, the trumpeter's disappearance, or Michael Geste's confession and how it got there.
No--you do not want to hear those perfectly futile theories--those explanations that explained nothing. But it may interest you to hear that I was faced that evening, on top of the rest of my little pleasures, with a military mutiny."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated Lawrence, turning to the speaker.
"Yes. At four o'clock I ordered the Sergeant-Major to fall the men in, and I would tell off the new garrison for Zinderneuf.
In a most unusual manner the Sergeant-Major hung fire, so to speak, instead of stepping smartly off about his duty.
'Well?' said I sharply.
'There is going to be trouble, mon Commandant,' he faltered.
'Mon Dieu, there is!' I snapped, 'and I am going to make it, if I have any nonsense. What do you mean?'
'Sergeant Lebaudy says that Corporal Brille says that the men say . . .'
'Name of the Name of the Name of Ten Thousand Thundering Tin Devils,' I shouted. . . . 'You say that he says that they say that she says,' I mocked. 'Va t'en, grand babbilard!' I roared at him. 'I'll be on parade outside those gates in ten seconds, and if you and your gibbering chatterboxes are not awaiting me there at attention . . .' and my poor Sergeant-Major fled.
I was the more angry at his news, for I had subconsciously expected something of the sort.
What else, with these ignorant, superstitious clods, who were the bravest of the brave against human foes? None like them. Every man a hero in battle. . . . But what of that House of Death with its Watchers? That place into which their comrade had boldly climbed--and never come forth again.
Rastignac had begun it. And they had seen him face instant death rather than enter it--Rastignac, the fearless reckless devil, whose bravery alone had prevented his escapades from bringing him to a court-martial and the Zephyrs. He, of all men, was afraid of the place. There is nothing so infectious as that sort of panic. . . .
Well! One more fact to accept.
If the men would not enter the fort of Zinderneuf, they would not enter the fort of Zinderneuf--and that was that.
But if the will of these scoundrels was coming into conflict with the will of Henri de Beaujolais, there were exciting times ahead. Since they sought sorrow they should certainly find it--and as I put on my belt and boots again, I felt a certain elation.
'Action is always action, mon Henri,' said I to myself, 'and it will be a change from these thrice-accursed theories and attempts to explain the inexplicable and reconcile the irreconcilable.'
Bah! I would teach my little dogs to show their teeth, and I rode, on a mule, over to the fort. There I bade Dufour and Lebaudy select an escouade of the worst men, all mauvais sujets of that Company. They should garrison either Zinderneuf fort, or else the grave that had been dug for those brave 'fallen who had not been allowed to fall.' . . .
As I rode up, the Sergeant-Major Dufour called the men to attention, and they stood like graven images, the selected escouade on the right, while I made an eloquent speech, the funeral oration of that brave band to whom we were about to give a military funeral with all the last honours that France could render to the worthy defenders of her honour and her Flag.
Tears stood in my eyes and my voice broke as I concluded by quoting:--
'Soldats de la Légion, De la Légion Étrangère, N'ayant pas de nation, La France est votre mère.'
Then, when the selected new garrison got the order, 'Par files de quatre. En avant. Marche,' that they might march into the fort and begin their new duties by bringing the dead out for burial--they did something quite otherwise.
Taking the time from the right, with smartness and precision they stooped as one man, laid their rifles on the ground, rose as one man and stood at attention!
The right-hand man, a grizzled veteran of Madagascar, Tonquin, and Dahomey, took a pace forward, saluted, and with wooden face, said, 'We prefer to die with Rastignac.'
This was flat disobedience and rank mutiny. I had hardly expected quite this.
'But Rastignac is not going to die. He is going to live--long years, I hope--in the Joyeux. You, however, who are but cowardly sheep, led astray by him, shall have the better fate. You shall die now, or enter Zinderneuf fort and do your duty. . . . Sergeant-Major, have those rifles collected. Let the remainder of the Company right form, and
