bank until he
stood in the light of the lantern. Twice Walker raised the rifle to
his shoulder, twice he lowered it. Then he remembered that Hatteras
and he had been at school together.

"Good bye, Dicky," he cried, and fired. Hatteras tumbled down to the
boat-side. The blacks down-river were roused by the shot. Walker
shouted to them to stay where they were, and as soon as their camp was
quiet he stepped on shore. He filled up the whiskey jar with water,
tied it to Hatteras' feet, shook his hand, and pushed the body into
the river. The next morning he started back to Fernan Vaz.

THE PRINCESS JOCELIANDE.

The truth concerning the downfall of the Princess Joceliande has never
as yet been honestly inscribed. Doubtless there be few alive except
myself that know it; for from the beginning many strange and insidious
rumours were set about to account for her mishap, whereby great damage
was done to the memory of the Sieur Rudel le Malaise and Solita his
wife; and afterwards these rumours were so embroidered and painted by
rhymesters that the truth has become, as you might say, doubly lost.
For minstrels take more thought of tickling the fancies of those to
whom they sing with joyous and gallant histories than of their high
craft and office, and hence it is that though many and various
accounts are told to this day throughout the country-side by
grandsires at their winter hearths, not one of them has so much as a
grain of verity. They are but rude and homely versions of the chaunts
of Troubadours.

And yet the truth is sweet and pitiful enough to furnish forth a song,
were our bards so minded. Howbeit, I will set it down here in simple
prose; for so my duty to the Sieur Rudel bids me, and, moreover, 'twas
from this event his wanderings began wherein for twenty years I bare
him company.

And let none gainsay my story, for that I was not my master's servant
at the time, and saw not the truth with mine own eyes. I had it from
the Sieur Rudel's lips, and more than once when he was vexed at the
aspersions thrown upon his name. But he was ever proud, as befitted so
knightly a gentleman, and deigned not to argue or plead his honour
to the world, but only with his sword. Thus, then, it falls to me to
right him as skilfully as I may. Though, alas! I fear my skill is
little worth, and calumnies are ever fresh to the palate, while truth
needs the sauce of a bright fancy to command it.

These columnies have assuredly gain