practically without escort, as soon as news of the occurrence reached him; but he was fired upon from the jungle on the banks, two or three of his boat men were injured, and he himself had no alternative but to beat a hasty retreat. He tried to open up communication with Saleh by letter, but in this he failed. Raja Pahlawan Indut made it his business to prevent any outside influences being brought to bear upon his reputed leader. Then Wilson stockaded his own station, and waited for reinforcements from Kuâla Pekâra.

Meanwhile the insurgents were in undisturbed possession of the Pûlas Valley, the valley which had been Saleh's administrative district, and the ignorant peasants, mindful of the welfare of their kindred and their prop erty, and persuaded that the rule of a Raja of the Royal House had come again, flocked to the green standard with the docility of sheep. And, indeed, for a space the old days had returned. For the insurgents the hitherto omnipotent white men had ceased to exist save as enemies who were in a fair way to be severely drubbed; the peasants were once more as driven cattle before the followers of a prince; the old lawlessness, the old carelessness of the rights of the weaker, revived with a new strength due to the reaction consequent upon long suppression. The hatred of injustice, which the white men had implanted in Saleh, blazed up daily, almost hourly, at some act of his followers, but he was powerless to control them. He began to understand, as he never before had understood, why native rule, as it of old existed, had been a thing intolerable in the eyes of the English. Too late he was realizing the nature of the justification upon which is based the usurpation of authority by the white men in Malayan lands. Also, when he thought upon the might of England, despair would

him now, he was leading a forlornhope. Yet he felt no desire to withdraw. The hatred of life, which in his people leads not to suicide but to âmokrunning, possessed him. He had no wish to live, but he was passionately determined to sell his life as dearly as he might.

Messages had been sent to chiefs all over the country calling upon them in Saleh's name to rise against the white men, but the response made had been feeble. The chiefs preferred to await events, to see how the cat would jump, and once more the paralyzing want of cohesion, which always frustrates attempts at concerted action among Malays, foredoomed the outbreak to early failure. But though there was no general rising in Saleh's favor throughout the State, a wide sympathy was felt for him by men who recalled that he was his father's son, a prince to whom they were bound by ties of hereditary loyalty. For their own wellbeing they hesitated to throw in their lot with him; but the memory of a decade and a half of peace enjoyed and benefits reaped under British rule did not suffice to induce the natives to show themselves active supporters of the representatives of the new régime. Here and there a youngster, more hot-blooded than his fellows, slipped away to join the insurgents, and the good wishes of his friends and relatives went with him; but for the rest Saleh's people were prepared to afford him none save negative assistance. They would not help the white men they would even go the length of delaying their preparations and of putting obstacles secretly in their way, but that was the limit of the personal risk which they were willing to incur. Even the call of Muhammadan to Muhammadan, of folk of the As-Senusi Brotherhood to their brethren, fell on deaf ears. It was well known that this Jehad was

not the Holy War which the Saiyid had foretold, that Saleh and Râja Pablûwan Indut had raised the green standard prematurely, of their own motion, without orders from the head of the brotherhood. If victory lay for a space with them, then the wild fire of a holy war might, perhaps, spread throughout the State; but for the present Pelesu was content to wait. Even the young men who had dreamed of the old days, and had thought that they longed mightily for their return when that return seemed to be impossible, began of a sudden to count up the cost of unsuccessful rebellion. Raja Pahlawan Indut appealed to their imaginations, and Saleh was the scion of their royal house. Young blood and their Malayan hearts urged them to join in the struggle; but the large measure of material prosperity which they had gotten furnished a ballast of saner counsels. The vast majority saw wisdom in a prudent waiting upon events. Meanwhile Saleh was finding himself once more the Merovingian King, with Raja Pahlawan as his Mayor of the Palace, as completely under tutelage as ever was a Malayan Raja to the British Resident appointed to the charge of his State. Everything was done in his name, for that name lent force to the cause, but often enough even the formality of consulting him had not previously been observed,almost as often the thing done was to him an abomination. In warfare Raja Pahlawan Indut was an expert; his reputation for valor and strategy stood high in the land; his word carried weight and authority with his fellows; Saleh was only required to be present as a symbol of Malayan royalty, to do what he was advised, and to keep out of personal danger. His life, not his individual leadership, was precious to the cause.

After a fortnight spent-Saleh would have said "wasted"-in preparations,

the mustering of the cowed peasants of the valley, the building of a large stockade in the centre of a rice-swamp at a place called Ulu Penyûdah, where Saleh's headquarters were established, and the collection of mountains of supplies, Raja Pahlawan Indut led off a rabble of some five hundred men to make an attack upon Wilson's fortified post at Kuala Pûlas. Saleh pleaded hard to be allowed to go with the war party, but the old men who now formed his council would not hear of it. Accordingly he remained behind with the women and children, the impedimenta, and a strong force to guard him. He felt like a prisoner, as though he had lost, not recovered, his liberty: his position was to him at once ignominious and shameful, and he was rent by an agony of suspense.

Wilson had

The attack failed badly. had ample time in which to strengthen his defences and to complete his arrangements; the surprise, so successful in the night assault on the police-station, could not be repeated; the charge of fifty youths, intoxicated by excitement, enthusiasm, and fanaticism, and led in person by Râja Pahlawan, was met by a withering fire from behind the Government stockade; and an attempted siege was put an end to by the arrival of large reinforcements from Kuala Pekâra. With those reinforcements came Saleh's old friend Jack Norris, who, on account of his intimate knowledge of Pelesu and its people, had been sent to take charge of the State in this hour of stress-Craster, the Resident, being absent on leave, and his locum tenens being considered too inexperienced to grapple successfully with the emer

gency.

It was a disorderly and woebegonelooking mob that straggled into Saleh's stockade when the retreat from Kuâla Pûlas had been made, and the tale they had to tell was a sorry story. These

men, who had been so intoxicated and uplifted by a facile victory, were cast into the depths of despondency by the first check. The sight of them filled Saleh with an angry disgust and contempt.

But the news which touched him most closely was the coming of Jack Norris. Mentally he contrasted the grip and the grit, the calm, keen force of the man, with the feeble qualities of the men about him. What chance had any of them, he thought, against him? Also the re-entry of Jack Norris into his life made him plumb suddenly with an intense self-hatred the depths to which he had fallen since that day so long ago on board the P. & O. steamer at the Albert Docks! Old memories crowded upon him and set him to the weary task of re-living in imagination the past five years, noting each failure that marked, as it were with a tombstone on the grave of dead hopes, every stage of that woful progress. And yet, looking back with the clear eyes of one who believes himself to be very near to death, Saleh could not see how events could have been shaped by him Blackwood's Magazine.

into a mould other than that which they had taken. From first to last circumstances had been against him. At one time it was the part of him which had been developed by his training in England that had led to his undoing; at another it was the Malay in him that had betrayed him into paths whence there was no return. He had never had a chance, never had a chance! He had been handicapped from the outset by his birth and breeding, handicapped yet more cruelly, because wantonly, needlessly, fruitlessly, by the folly which had tried so vainly to turn him into the likeness of an Englishman. He saw himself, like Muhammad's coffin, suspended betwixt earth and heaven,-unfitted by training to be a Malay râja, unsuited by nature to be an Englishman-a hybrid, a waif, an outcast, and now, alas, an outlaw! For it was to this that the long tale of mistakes had brought him,-to be the leader of a band of ragamuffins, whose savagery sickened and appalled him, and to be fighting a futile fight against the man who had been to him his best friend!

May 1908.

In the snuggest hollow of the rolling Quinta, sheltered on every side by slopes now thickly green with beans and maize, with strong young corn and the leafage of vines, is the garden; or rather the twin-gardens, for the two lie side by side in their highwalled enclosure. The one is for the most part a grove of orange and lemon trees, hung with globes of gold-here clear and coolly pale, there richly glowing; but almond and cherry, pear and "The Living Age," December 7, 1907.

peach stand also ankle-deep in patches of homely vegetable, besides medlars covered with amber balls, as good to eat as they are pretty to look at, and fig trees, whose luscious fruit is yet to come. In their midst, under a widespreading pavilion, is the well. Its waters are laboriously scooped up by means of a small bucket fixed to a long and cunningly weighted pole and find their way through narrow runnels to every part of the enclosure. This garden with its hedges of blush roses and its borders of violets and freesias

is a delight, but the joy of my heart is the other garden! Laid out, no one knows how many years ago-generations, any way, before the house was built, it has long since fallen into neglect. But it is a neglect that has made for beauty. In the morning and at evening I love to pace its grassgrown alleys breathing in the mingied perfumes of roses and lilies, of sweetpeas and carnations, while whiffs of lemon-blossom steal in through the wicket that leads from the orchard hard by, meeting the sharp pungency of Alecrim da Norte, the northern rosemary, or the aroma of lavendar. High walls of box there are, affording scented shade even at the sunniest of noontides, and if they are never clipped into prim precision, all the better for the multitude of feathered things that make their home therein.

Great is the Portuguese caçador, like unto his Spanish and Italian brothers, in the slaughter of small birds, but Donna Emilia will not suffer a gun within her domains, and all day long, this merry month of May, a perfect carnival of courtship goes on with trillings and pipings, and flutings and callings, and floods of melody poured forth to the droning bass of honeyheavy bees. Butterflies, as well as - birds, flit in and out of the tall screens of interwoven polished foliage, and small green frogs drop heavily from branch to branch, while bright-eyed lizards flash-streaks of emerald lightning-across the mossy flanking paths.

The boundary of my favorite path on its far side is a low stone wall, broad enough to be inset with seats alternating with beds, which are just now one wild profusion of pink lilies and delicate miniature iris, things of beauty, with their gold-pencilled purple petals. In earlier spring, it is here the violets grow in rank luxuriance, making a scented carpet, from which rise clusters of jonquil and narcissus, and

in the red-watered moat beyond the yellow flags in vain endeavor to grasp the rosy wreaths of almond blossom, stretching with such coquettish allurement over the gray walls of the adjacent orchard. But the flags furled themselves full two months ago and nought but the tall green blades from which they sprang remain, while fruit is already forming in place of the vanished blossoms. Oh! it is sweet to linger in the old sunk garden amid a tangle of flowers left so long ago to grow and multiply at their own sweet will, whose thousand interwoven perfumes mount with such subtle intoxication to the brain. Here in this dewy corner a tall Annunciation lily opened great pure eyes at dawn, that seem to gaze in chaste aloofness at the purple Bougainvillea clasping the date palms in such passionate embrace. There, across the way a pomegranate set about with tufts of scarlet flame, laughs-reckless as any Bacchante, at the nunlike Arum that stands apart with stiff and slender grace. Yonder the ground is a network of sweet-pea. all velvety, maroon and violet; hard by, a patch of red carnations pour forth their spicy fragrance. Honeysuckle flings its yellow trails in languorous caress of all within its reach, and geranium bushes flaunt their wealth of vivid vermillion rosettes in every scrap of sunny open. In the shade of two mighty araucarias, ferns that would make the fortune of a West End florist flourish exceedingly, side by side with orchids of curious resemblance to bees with wings of delicate lilac. Roses are everywhere-roses red and roses white, roses pink and blush, and yellow and mauvy amber. Cabbage roses-oh! such mines of perfume, tea roses and Maréchal Niels, blush roses and Banksia, Noisette, and cottage roses-to my mind sweetest of all. Roses in thickets, roses climbing trellises in densely clustering masses.

roses falling athwart old walls in wanton cascades of color and fragrance, roses garlanding deserted arbors, roses clutching at you as you make your way down long untrodden paths. And, at one end of the terrace that skirts the Palacio, where the broken sundial lies among the oleanders and along whose balustrade great blue and white vases of glazed earthenware stand at intervals overflowing with trails of scarlet geranium and yellow-starred musk-there is a parterre of roses. It is here I cut some hundreds daily for the decoration of dinner-table and living rooms. I might take thousandsthey would never be missed. The sup

ply is inexhaustible and my scissors cannot keep pace with the multitudes that unfold new beauties to the sun each morning.

In the depths of my dear gardensurely no sleeping beauty ever woke to the kiss of her lover in a more enchanting bower-all, save for the song of birds, the cooing of doves and the drowsing hum of bees, is silence. Α great lizard fully two feet long, who clasps the top of a post with skinny hands and clings with bright green body and tapering bronze tail to its sides, blinks sleepily at me with eyes set in a head of metallic blue, as motionless as I who fear to send him darting to his secret lair in the grove of feathery pampas hard by.

Suddenly from some remote corner of the Quinta come the voices of the girls at work among the vines, rising into long-drawn not untuneful chants, which, with their final minor cadences, are fraught with all the mysterious melancholy of the East. Whence did they get their song? Was it from gypsy ancestors? The fields of Hungary rise before me as I listen, and wild inarticulate melodies heard among the Carpathians echo in my ears. Or is it a legacy from the Moors, who bequeathed so many indelible traces to

the land of their adoption? Mingled with the unalterable Sehnsucht of the formless melody I seem to hear the faraway beat of the tom-tom, throbbing on air as hot and still as that of some African desert.

For it is not in song alone that here we recognize the East, but also in the cold gaze of dark eyes, in the dainty proportions of high-instepped feet, and in the love of vivid color and personal adornment, SO peculiarly noticeable among those that garner the harvest, whether it be that of the fields or of the sea. The peasant-wife who jogs by on her donkey to market, perched between her panniers of beans or Indian corn, the fishermaid who squats crosslegged in the Praça with her basket of soles and turbot before her, the girl who weeds and hoes in springtime, and gathers in the vintage when autumn is over the land, balancing on her head weights that I cannot stir with my two hands, and moving with the carriage of a queen-their muffled heads recalling the Oriental veil as the heavy draping of their forms does the yashmak-one and all love to bind scarlet kerchiefs about their brows and to don skirts of pink or yellow, buff or magenta, which, kilted high on the hips, make spots of brilliant color in the distance. They know not shoes nor. stockings, but ornaments of pure gold glitter in their small ears even while they dig and delve, and their persons are veritable jewellers' étalages whenever fitting occasion for display presents itself.

How they amass this treasure of gold, and this, too, in its most unalloyed form, is an unsolved riddle to me. Most of the store hoarded by their grandmothers was earned at a time when a day's work, literally from the rising to the setting of the sun, only brought in its 32d. The passing of the years has doubled this wage, but life is not much easier to be lived