Daylight broke next morning in a snow-storm, and a thin sprinkling lay over all the hills, clothing them in spotless white.
General Michael was among the first astir, seeing in person to all the details of the retreat. The men looked in vain towards the tent where their late youthful leader had been wont1 to sit, nibbling2 the end of his golden pocket-penholder, wrestling manfully in the throes of literary composition.
When at last the order was given to strike tents the faces of the rank and file fell like the face of one man.
Major James Edward Makerstone Agar had simply disappeared. His limited baggage was attached to the smaller belongings3 of General Michael, and no explanation was offered by that dreaded4 officer. To him the cold seemed to be a matter of indifference5; for he stood about watching every movement of the men with a supreme6 disregard for the driving snow or the knife-like wind that whistled over the northern scarp.
Under his calculating eye they worked to such effect that by nine o'clock the little column was on the downward march. Again General Michael rode through that lone7, lorn country lying between India and Russia. Again his melancholy8 face with keen but hopeless eyes passed through the darksome valleys where, if legend be true, a race as old as his has lived since the children of Abraham set forth9 to wander over the earth.
For twenty years this man had haunted these vales and hills, seeking, ever seeking, his own aggrandisement and nothing else. Accounted a patriot10, he was no patriot; for the homeless blood was mingled11 in his veins12. Held to be a hero by some, he was none; for he hated danger for its own sake, just as some men love it.
But his lines had been cast in this unpleasant place, from whence flight or retreat was rendered almost impossible, by the laws of discipline and the freak of circumstance. Despite his titles, in face of his great reputation, he knew himself to be a failure, and as he rode southward through the mountain barrier that frowns down over India he was conscious of the knowledge that in all human probability he would never look upon this drear land again. His time was up, he was about to be set on the shelf, life was over. And he had all his powers yet—all his marvellous quickness at the mastery of tongues, all the restless energy which had urged him on to overrun the race, to dodge13 and bore and break his stride instead of holding steadily14 on the straight course.
He it was who had discovered Jem Agar's talent for this rough, peculiar15 soldiering of the frontier. He it was to whom the simple-minded young officer had owed promotion16 after promotion. General Michael had fixed17 upon Agar as his last hope—his last chance of doing something brilliant in this deathly country, which moved with a slowness that nearly drove him mad.
This last attempt was thrown down like a defiance18 in the face of Fortune; but still the risk was not his own. It never had been. Men had been sent to their certain death by this sallow-faced commander, for no other object than his own aggrandisement. It would almost seem that a just Providence19 had ever turned away in loathing20 from the schemes of this man who would have all and risk nothing.
Should Jem Agar succeed in the dangerous secret mission on which he had been sent by a subtle underhand pressure of discipline, the glory would never be his. This, under the grasping fingers of General Michael, would never appear to the world as the wonderful individual feat21 of an intrepid22 man, but as a masterly stroke of strategy dealt by a great general.
Seymour Michael had long ago found out that Jem Agar was the step-son of the woman whom he had wronged in bygone years. But the name failed to touch his conscience, partly because that conscience was not of much account, and partly because time heals all things, even a sore sense of wrong. Truth to tell, he had not thought much of Anna Agar during the last twenty years, and the mere23 coincidence that this simple tool should be her step-son was insufficient24 to deter25 him from making use of Agar. But with that careful attention to detail which in such a man betrayed innate26 weakness, he took care to make sure that Jem Agar had learnt nothing of the past from the lips of his father's second wife.
General Michael did not disguise from himself the fact that the mission on which he had despatched Jem Agar was what the life insurance companies call hazardous27. But he had lived by the sword, and that mode of gaining a livelihood28 makes men wondrously30 indifferent to the lives of others. Moreover, this was in a sense a speciality of his. He was getting hardened to the game, and played it with coolness and precision.
All through that day the little band retreated through an enemy's country, watchful31, alert, almost nervous. There were absurdly few of them—a characteristic of that frontier warfare32 which the sallow, silent leader had waged nearly all his life. And in the evening there was not peace.
Fortune is a playful soul. She keeps men waiting a lifetime, and then, when it is too late, she suddenly opens both her hands. Seymour Michael had waited twenty years for one of those chances of easy distinction which seemed to fall to the lot of all his comrades in arms. This chance was vouchsafed33 to him on the last evening he ever passed in an enemy's country—when it was too late—when that which he did was no more than was to be expected from a man of his experience and fame.
The little band was attacked at sunset by the victorious34 savages35 who had annihilated36 the advance column three days earlier, and with half the number of men, fatigued37 and hungry, Seymour Michael beat them back and cut his way to the south. He knew that it was good, and the men knew it. They looked upon this keen-faced little man as something approaching a demi-god; but they had no love for him as they had for Major Agar. The knowledge was theirs that to him their lives were of no account—they were not men, but numbers. He brought them out of a dire38 strait by sheer skill, by that heartless grip of discipline which a true general exercises over his troops even at that critical moment when a common death seems to reduce all lives to an equal value.
But in the thick of it the Goorkhas—keen little Highlanders of the Indian army—looked in vain for the fighting light in their leader's eyes. They listened in vain for the encouraging voice—now low and steady in warning, now trumpet-like and maddening with the infection of excitement.
In the midst of that wild, apparently39 disorderly mêlée in the narrow valley, while the hush40 of mountain sunset settled over the battle, the leader sat imperturbable41, cold, and infinitely42 wise. He was pale, and his lips were quite colourless, but his eyes were vigilant43, ready, resourceful. An ideal general but no soldier. He played this game with a skill that never faced the possibility of failure—and won.
Far overhead, many miles to the northward44, a solitary45 wanderer heard the sound of firing and paused to listen. He was a big man, worthy46 to be accounted such even among the strapping47 mountaineers of that district, and as he leant on the long barrel of his quaintly48 ornamental49 rifle his sheepskin cloak fell back from a long sinewy50 arm of deep-brown hue51.
As he listened to the far-off rumble52 of independent firing he muttered to himself indications of anxiety. Strange to say, the eyes that looked out over the hollow of the gorge-like valley were blue. They were, however, hardly visible through the tangle53 of unkempt hair and raw wool that fell over his forehead. The high sheepskin cap was dragged forward, and the lower part of his face was almost hidden by the indiscriminate folds of hood29, cloak, and scarf affected54 by the shepherds hereabout.
James Agar was perfectly55 happy. There must have been somewhere in his sporting soul that love of Nature which drives men into solitude—making gamekeepers and fishermen and explorers of them. It was in this man's character to wait passive until responsibility came to him, when he accepted it readily enough; but he never went out to meet it. He was not as the sons of Levi, who took too much upon themselves; but rather was he happiest when he had only his own life and his own self to take care of.
Here he was now an outcast, an Ishmaelite, with every man's hand raised against him. It was not the first time. For this quiet-going man had unobtrusively learnt many tongues, and, while no one heeded56 him, he had studied the ways of this Eastern land with no mean success.
He waited there during an hour while the firing still continued, and then, when at last silence reigned57 again and the wind whispered undisturbed through the dark pines, he turned his wandering footsteps northward to a land where few white men have passed.
So night fell upon these two men thus hazardously58 brought together, and every moment stretched longer the distance between them—James Agar going north, Seymour Michael passing southward.
Agar wondered vaguely59 whether his toilsome diary would ever reach home, but he was not anxious as to the result of the fight which had evidently taken place in the valley. He too seemed to share the belief of all who came in contact with him that General Michael could not do wrong in warfare.
That night the Master of Stagholme laid him down to rest in the shadow of a big rock, strong in himself, strong in his faith. And as he slumbered62, those who slumber61 not nor cease their toil60 by day or night sat with crooked63 backs over a little ticking, spitting, restless machine that spelt out his name across half the world. While the moon rose over the mountains, and looked placidly64 down upon this strange man lying there peacefully sleeping in a world of his own, two men who had never seen each other talked together with nimble fingers over a thousand miles of wire. And one told the other that James Edward Makerstone was dead.
The sleeper65 slept on. He smiled quietly beneath the moon. Perhaps he dreamt of the home-coming, of that time when he could say at last, “I have fought my fight, and now I come with a clear conscience to enjoy the good things given to me.” He never dreamt of treason. He never knew that for their own gain men will sacrifice the happiness of their neighbours without so much as a pang66 of self-reproach. There are some people, thank Heaven, who never learn these things, who go on believing that men are good and women better all their lives.
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1
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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2
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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3
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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5
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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9
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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12
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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13
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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14
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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15
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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17
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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18
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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20
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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21
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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30
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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33
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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36
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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41
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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42
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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43
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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44
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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47
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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48
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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49
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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50
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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51
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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52
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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53
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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56
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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58
hazardously
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| adv.冒险地，有危险地 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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60
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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61
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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62
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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64
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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66
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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