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About this publication

This series provides an ideal platform to study chess openings. By continually challenging
the reader to answer probing questions throughout the book, the Move by Moveformat
greatly encourages the learning and practising of vital skills just as much as the traditional
assimilation of opening knowledge. Carefully selected questions and answers are designed
to keep you actively involved and allow you to monitor your progress as you learn. This is
an excellent way to study any chess opening and at the same time improve your general
chess skills and knowledge.

In this book, International Master Cyrus Lakdawala invites you to join him in studying the
French Defence, Classical Variation, which is a popular choice among chess players of all
levels. Lakdawala examines in detail the important and commonly played lines, including
the Steinitz, McCutcheon and Burn Variations. Using illustrative games and drawing on his
own experience with the opening, he explains the main positional and tactical ideas for
both sides, provides answers to all the key questions and tells you everything you need to
know about successfully playing the Classical French.

· Essential guidance and training in the Classical French

· Provides repertoire options for Black
· Utilizes an ideal approach to chess study

Cyrus Lakdawala is an International Master, a former National Open and American Open
Champion, and a six-time State Champion. He has been teaching chess for over 30 years,
and coaches some of the top junior players in the U.S.
Foreword

Move by Move is a series of opening books which uses a question-and-answer format.

One of our main aims of the series is to replicate - as much as possible - lessons between
chess teachers and students.

All the way through, readers will be challenged to answer searching questions and to
complete exercises, to test their skills in chess openings and indeed in other key aspects of
the game. It's our firm belief that practising your skills like this is an excellent way to study
chess openings, and to study chess in general.

Many thanks go to all those who have been kind enough to offer inspiration, advice and
assistance in the creation of Move by Move. We're really excited by this series and hope
that readers will share our enthusiasm.

John Emms
Everyman Chess
Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1. Classical Steinitz Main Line

Chapter 2. The Shirov-Anand Line

Chapter 3. Poisoned Pawn Line

Chapter 4. Old School Classical Line

Chapter 5. Burn Variation

Chapter 6. McCutcheon Main Line

Chapter 7. McCutcheon 6 Be3 and 6 Bc1

Chapter 8. McCutcheon Deviations and Delayed Exchange Variation

Introduction
The French Classical is acquired after Black applies extra pressure to the white centre with
3...Nf6 after 1 e4 e6 2 d4 d5 3 Nc3.

Why Play the French?

If the human race is the by-product of Darwinian selection, where only the fittest of the
species survive, then why is it that on the chess board - a Darwinian dystopia if there ever
was one, defensive players win just as often or more than belligerent attackers? My
theory is that defensive players - and we French players perfectly fit this category, are
better suited to survive than our aggressively inclined counterparts, who have a nasty way
of gambling away their lives by chasing some folly. Children want a 100% share and tend
to pick fights with other children over trivial matters. As adults, having grown wiser (and
perhaps also more devious!), we learn to pick our fights. Sometimes our self-interest lies
in the surrender of a minor skirmish, in order to later win the war. The Classical French
embraces this philosophy. From the start, we cede White space and by default, attacking
chances, all in order to counterattack later.

Some players stick to one opening scheme their entire chess lives, meeting 1 e4 with Pirc,
Modern Defence, Scandinavian, Alekhine's Defence, Caro-Kann, Sicilian, or 1...e5. I'm the
opposite as my ADHD-infected brain tends to amble to anything and everything in the
opening. In fact, I'm hard pressed to come up with an opening, however esoteric, which I
haven't played. But if you ask me what my favourite opening is, I faithfully answer: The
French Defence (except I spell the word defense with an 's'!). I have yet to discover
another strategically rich opening which invariably flares into irrational tactics later on, the
way the French does. If understanding the French is a science, then it is a dark science.
The panoramic scope of potential structures is staggering and that is what fascinates me
the most about the opening. Whenever I play the French, I get that restful feeling of being
completely at home. The French has been a key player in my opening repertoire since the
early 70's and I never tire of its adventures or even its misadventures. It takes a
coldblooded - I would go as far as to call it reptilian - spirit to navigate and survive the
violent corridors of the Classical (or any other!) French Defence, an opening of docile
outer appearances but great inner turmoil, always on the verge of calamity. After playing
the French for a while, it may appear to you that our opening is nothing more than a
series of crises for Black, and you would be correct in your assumption. But there is also
great reward, should we happen to survive our ordeal, since the opening contains within
its core a hidden, coiled spring mechanism. We first get pushed back and then later
emerge bullying our previous bullier.

The Dark Square question: Why play Classical over the Winawer?

The Winawer (1 e4 e6 2 d4 d5 3 Nc3 Bb4) is currently more popular than the Classical.
However, if you look at the choice of top GMs, they tend to lean toward the Classical. The
reason may be it is slightly more strategically sound than Winawer, since Black retains
greater control over the dark squares. Back in the 80's, I asked my friend IM Doug Root
why he played Classical French rather than the Winawer. He answered: "I like my dark
squares!" In the Winawer - which has always been my main French and Classical my
secondary - Black, in the main lines plays...Bb4 and usually later...Bxc3+, handing White
the bishop pair and control over the dark squares to inflict damage to the structure. In the
Classical, we don't get the better structure, but we do hang on to our precious dark-
squared bishop - and with it, our dark squares.

Cramped Quarters

In the Classical French, we willingly hand White an early space advantage as soon as e5 is
played. This lack of space can be chaffing and it's easy to experience suffocating,
submerged feelings, not knowing which direction is up - the place of life-giving air. If we
allow the asphyxiation to continue without fighting back with undermining freeing ideas
like...c5 and...f6, we risk getting squeezed and passing bluely, from this life to the next. It
feels as if the yin/yang ratio is askew and we often wish our side could use a little more
yang in the formula. But realize this: Our yang is there. It simply arrives late. The nature of
the French is to hand White an early (and often temporary) initiative. Ours arrives later,
often in the form of withering counterattacks. Those who play French begin to sense
something formidable behind the opening's seemingly passive exterior.

The French is a species of opening which has a nasty habit of upending those who don't
know their theory. The Classical French is one of those libraryish openings we just can't
wing through in an abstract or absent manner. Black's demeanour manifests outwardly of
meek servility, all the while inwardly of a conspirator plotting revenge. Sometimes we
arrive in positions we just can't wrestle our way out of. The best course of action is to
remain loose and allow White's fearful initiative wave to pass over us and only then
counterattack. Our opening is not for those whose haughty spirit rankles and chafes at the
first sign of an opponent's initiative.

The staggering enormity and scope of the lines we must master is intimidating. It's critical
we glean understanding of the inner workings of each opening line, not just memorizing it,
like a parrot, who can repeat, yet lacks the ability to understand what she is saying. Each
chapter contains its separate joys and trials. I once read that the monk Gregor Mendel,
the father of modern genetics flunked his teaching certificate examination in both geology
and zoology! Moral: We all sometimes forget our lines! So let's not lose heart if we
sometimes omit a key move or idea and get upended in a theoretical duel.

Let's take a look at our Classical French battlegrounds:

Main line Classical

The Classical Main line is a variation imbibed with the baffling suspense of a good mystery
novel and the frantic urgency of a thriller, especially since opposite wings castling steps up
the intrigue. I like Black's chances, with our open c-file, the possibility of attacking
with...a6 and later...b5, and also the fact that we can meet White's coming attack with a
timely...f6 or...f5 counter.

The Shirov-Anand Line

Chapter Two has the disorienting quality of being lost in an unfamiliar city. We reach a
position more closely associated with the f4 lines of Tarrasch, rather than Classical.

"If I Swallow Anything Evil, Put Your Finger Down My Throat..."

The 8...Qb6 Poisoned Pawn Line
In chaotic positions, it sometimes appears to us as if the correlation of cause and effect
breaks down. Of course this is an illusion, bred by our own ignorance. The 8...Qb6!?
Poisoned Pawn Line appears to strain the fulcrum of common sense, until it snaps. The
cause of every effect still remains, even when we can't see it. I fear Paul Morphy, if he
were alive today, would vomit upon viewing Black's decision to go pawn-hunting, violating
the ABC's of opening principle in the most flagrant manner possible. A warning: Your
losses in this line could be unpleasantly memorable. The choice of opening lines yields
clues to the motivations of their devotees. The Poisoned Pawn Line tells us the following:
People who play this line may harbour the criminal gene and are willing to take excessive
risks to steal a mere pawn. I freely admit that Black's last move, 8...Qb6, fishing for b2, is
one of outlandish design. Ambition has its costs and in the Poisoned Pawn Line, we are
willing to pay the price. However, lately in high-level games, top-ten-ranked GMs are
experiencing a devil of a time proving even an edge for White. So what first began in the
1980s as a sleazy side line, designed to waylay unsuspecting victims, may now have gone
legit, championed by no less than the likes of GM Hikaru Nakamura, who uses it as a
drawing weapon! A bearer of stunning news loves to evoke shock and terror in his or her
audience, so brace yourself when I declare to you: Black's pawn grab is sound (at least at
the time of this writing). Black's queen is the secretly genius jester in a court of unaware
fools. She continues to play dumb, all the while, laughing inwardly, as she sneaks away
with a pawn.

The Russian Roulette line

White's once dominant centre is slowly chipped away from the flanks, with...c5 and
eventually...f6. The game revolves around White's ability to control the e5-square.

Burn variation 6...gxf6

In the Burn variation 6...gxf6, we grab the bishop pair and agree to a disruption of our
pawn centre. We concentrate on Morozevich's specialty of the...a6 and...b5 plan, with
rich, unbalanced play.

The McCutcheon

Our next three diagrams represent some of our most difficult strategic challenges in the
book. These are positions conducive to experimentation and we simply go where the road
takes us!
The History of the French

Our opening took its birth in 1834, in a correspondence match between London and Paris,
when the French player, Chamouillet, influenced his teammates to respond to 1 e4 with
the introverted and baffling 1...e6!. According to my database, the French today is Black's
third most popular response to 1 e4, behind the Sicilian and 1...e5. Here is a startlingly
modern-looking early encounter:

E.Schallopp-L.Paulsen, Leipzig 1877

Dedication

Many thanks to editor GM John Emms, and to punctuation and proofreading czar Nancy,
and to CC-SIM Junior Tay for the final edit. May your opponents' frustrated labours be
swept away in the wake of our Classical French counter-attacks.

Cyrus Lakdawala,
San Diego,
September 2014
 Schallopp,E [C11] claim, how can Black exploit it?
Paulsen,L [ANSWER: This way: 10...fxe5! 11.dxe5
Leipzig, 1877 (11.fxe5 cxd4 12.cxd4 0–0 13.Bd3
[Cyrus Lakdawala] transposes to the game) 11...c4!...Nc5 is
in the air and Black already stands better,
1.e4 e6 2.d4 d5 3.Nc3 Nf6 since b2 and b3 provide Black with juicy
As you can see, the Classical French has targets, "Albitexm"-"Badbishop1",
been around for a long time. Internet 2007.]
4.e5 11.Bd3 cxd4 12.cxd4 fxe5 13.fxe5?
The fifth rank -the opponent's territory- EXERCISE (combination alert/planning):
is that violation of the invisible barrier of White's dream of endless peace and
the neutral zone, which we all desire to plenty in the realm is about to be
cross in the opening. [We will spend a shattered by a bout of war, pestilence
good chunk of the book looking at 4.Bg5] and hunger. White's last move allows
4...Nfd7 5.Nce2 Black a very promising plan, which today,
The Shirov-Anand Line, which we will is a standard idea in many French lines.
cover in Chapter 2. White deliberately What is it? [As kids, we were all told to
clogs development and also moves the capture toward the centre. In this case,
same piece twice in the opening – both White was better off violating the
violations – to back up his centre with c3. principle with 13.dxe5 Nc5 14.Bc2 a5
5...c5 6.c3 15.Be3!? (White was probably better off
All future...cxd4 lines will be met with with the calmer 15.Rb1 a4 16.Be3 Qa5+
cxd4, rather than a piece recapture on 17.Kf2) 15...Qxb2 16.0–0, V.Bologan-
d4. O.Danielian, Jurmala 1991. I don't believe
6...Nc6 7.f4 Qb6 8.Nf3 f6 9.a3 Be7 in White's full compensation for the
Amazing. This is the cutting-edge position pawn.]
we reach in Anand-Shirov from Chapter ANSWER: The undermining exchange sac
2, except this game was played well over decimates White's once proud pawn
a century before that one. Louis Paulsen centre.
was a century ahead of most of his rivals 13...Rxf3!
in his opening choices, since in those The sound of a cannon salvo rouses
days nearly everyone responded to 1 e4 White from his nap, with a start. The
classically, with 1...e5. ambitious rook seeks to alter and
10.Ng3!? upgrade the designation of his job
If a GM played this move today, I would description, from "Knight of the Realm"
hand it a '?!' mark, but it's easy to forget to 'Universal Overlord'. Of course the
that in those days, there were no temptation to sac is overwhelming
opening books and no databases with (especially when it is absolutely sound, as
easy-to-pull-up stats. White can't unravel in this case!), like a pizza delivery driver
so easily without a price levied upon his who didn't get a chance to eat lunch, and
centre. [Today, 10.b4 ; and 10.h4 are who gazes lovingly at the pizza he must
White's two main lines.] hand over to an undeserving stranger.
10...0–0 We don't always require gigabytes of
QUESTION: If 10 Ng3?! is dubious as you information to make a decision.
Sometimes the eye sees and we simply 21.Bxe3 d4 22.Bd2 e5 23.Nd5 Bd6,
feel the correct answer, rather than Black's two central passers and bishop
compute it. I'm certain Paulsen didn't pair give him a strategically won game.]
need to work out all the lines of this very 19.Rf1 Qe5 20.Bd2! Bd7!
promising exchange sac (it almost isn't a QUESTION: Why not grab another one on
sac, since he gets so much for it!). b2?
14.Qxf3?! ANSWER: Too greedy. [Black falls behind
Now White's centre hangs. [He had to in development and pays a price after
try 14.gxf3 Nxd4 15.f4 Nb3 16.Rb1 Nxc1 20...Qxb2?! 21.Bc3 Qb3 (Black is
17.Qxc1 Nc5 18.Bc2 Bd7 (18...Nb3 unexpectedly busted after 21...Qb6??
19.Bxb3 Qxb3 also looks quite promising 22.Qf3!) 22.Nd4 Qb6 23.Nxc6 Qxc6
for Black, who dominates the light (23...bxc6? 24.Qf3! gets White back in
squares) 19.Qe3 Bb5 20.Rd1 (20.b4? is the game) 24.Qd4 e5! 25.Qxe5 Bf6
met with 20...Nd3+ 21.Kd2 Nxf4! 26.Rxf6 Qxf6 27.Qxf6 gxf6 28.Bxf6 and
22.Qxf4 Rf8 when White must return the White should hold the game a pawn
piece) 20...Rc8 when Black stands clearly down.]
better. For the exchange, he gets a pawn, 21.Bc3 Qd6 22.0–0–0
the bishop pair, potential pawn targets EXERCISE (planning): Nothing is as
and a shaky white king, D.Velimirovic- arduous as being forced to perform an
D.Antic, Herceg Novi 2001.] unpleasant task. Castling long represents
14...Qxd4 15.Ne2 Qh4+! more of a brief reprieve, rather than real
[This disruption is much stronger than freedom for White. Find one potent yet
15...Qxe5 16.0–0.] thematic French idea and White's king
16.g3 experiences serious difficulties:
[16.Qg3 Ndxe5 17.Bc2 b6 18.0–0 Bc5+ ANSWER: Transfer the bad bishop to the
19.Kh1 Qxg3 20.Nxg3 Ba6 21.Rf4 Rc8 also h7-b1 diagonal. Throughout the book,
leaves White uncoordinated, grossly please prepare yourself for my multiple
behind in development and busted.] torrential diatribes defending the French
16...Ndxe5 17.Qe3 bad bishop, an unjustly maligned piece.
[17.gxh4 Nxf3+ 18.Kf2 Nxh4 is a hopeless 22...Be8!
ending for White, since three pawns and The bishop approaches his fancied
the initiative are way too much for an diagonal with the silent yet deadly
mere exchange.] promise of destruction-to-come of a
17...Nxd3+ torpedo. The weakness of the light
Add the bishop pair to Black's already squares is the underlying reality through
impressive strategic portfolio. which the majority of White's coming
18.Qxd3 Qf6 troubles arise.
QUESTION: Why did Black walk into an 23.h4
obvious tempo loss? [QUESTION: If...Bg6 is so powerful, then
ANSWER: Black loses a tempo, no matter why not simply halt it with 23.Nf4 since
where he moves. [If: 18...Ne5 19.Qe3 Qf6 Black will not dare to play the
20.Rf1 Nc4 21.Qd3, Black loses a tempo weakening...g5?
with his queen.; Most promising is: ANSWER: Black dares when goaded.
18...Qh5! 19.Nf4 Qe5+ 20.Qe3 Qxe3+ 23...g5! (the simple 23...Bf7! also looks
quite promising for Black. 24.h4 Rd8 which she has become accustomed.
and...d4 is coming) 24.Ne2 (White's best These trinkets picked up on a7 and b7 did
may be to enter a difficult ending with not accord White an iota of good.
24.Nxe6 Qxe6 25.Rfe1 Qd7 26.Qxd5+ 28...Qe6
Qxd5 27.Rxd5) 24...Bg6 25.Qb5 Rc8 is Caissa's blessings have been exhausted
hopeless for White's king, who is caught and it's no use to pray for more. White
in a deadly crossfire.] can resign.
23...Rc8 29.a4
One obvious problem for White is the Hey, I said "Caissa's blessings have been
fact that he is unable to tuck his king exhausted and..." oh, never mind, I
away with Kb1–a1. forgot: Everyone played on until mate in
24.Nd4 Bg6 the 1800s, since their code of honour
The normally reserved bad bishop's regarded resignation as some kind of
reticence melts away and now nobody character flaw.
can get him to shut up. Now, the 29...dxc3 30.b4
weakness of White's light squares Houdini's evaluation: –11.89!.
spreads like gangrene up an infected 30...h5
limb. Ending all back rank vulgarities.
25.Qe3 e5 [30...Qb3?? walks into mate after
Black can play this move due to the pin 31.Qa8+. When we pull off a cheapo in a
on the c-file. losing position, it's as if some hidden and
26.Nxc6 powerful deity grants us grace by
[26.Nf5 Qe6 27.Nxe7+ Nxe7 is completely pardoning all our past sins, with a casual
hopeless for White, who bleeds on the wave of a hand.]
light squares.] 31.Qd7 Bxb4 32.Qxe6+ Rxe6 33.Rd8+
26...Rxc6 27.Qxa7 Kh7 34.a5
Nothing is as unnerving to a burglar as It's easy to predict the result when the
the cocking sound of a homeowner's royal court fop whips out his thin rapier,
gun. while his muscle bound knight-of-the-
27...d4 realm opponent slowly unsheathes a
There is no expiration date on Black's two-handed broadsword by its hilt.
initiative. Paulsen sinks a grappling hook 34...Ba3+
to the c3-bishop. Meanwhile, White's The pious bishop, unused to the white
king has the distinct appearance of a man king's coarse language and vile oaths,
who dearly wishes to be elsewhere – shields his ears with hands to avoid
wherever 'elsewhere' is. further unspiritual taint. [There was
28.Qxb7 nothing wrong with the greedier
The obese queen having eaten her fill 34...Bxa5.]
and then some (with possible 35.Kd1 c2+ 36.Kd2 c1Q+
indigestion), wears a mysterious Mona The c1–square proves to be a major
Lisa smile. Swallowing the food isn't centre of commerce. Black could have
enough. We must also digest what we been more patient in the payoff part of
consume. White's queen expects to be the process. [36...Rc6 37.Rc1 Bxc1+
lavishly supported financially, in a style to 38.Kxc1 Rf6 is also a trivial win.]
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
before a blow had been struck. So with this change in my ideas I
sought my bed.
In the morning I was told that poor Burroughs had died during the
night. He had not been in his senses, and ever murmured of the
terrible journey he had taken to warn us. He died, the men said,
shouting:
“Here they come, boys, the Frenchers and the Indians. Now strike
for Salem and the King!”
Burroughs’ death had been looked for, yet it dampened my spirits
a bit. However, I felt better after breakfast. I reflected that bridges
need not to be crossed until they lie before one, also that to borrow
trouble is to have a bad creditor. So I hurried about, here and there
in the fort, to see wherein our weakness lay.
I made several changes. I had all the inflammable material stored
in a safe place, and strengthened the magazine by binding logs on
the more exposed part. Then having seen to it that the cannon were
all in good order, with a supply of powder and balls at hand, I began
drilling the men. They practiced at gunnery, for we had plenty of
powder, and it was as well to let any sulking Indian scout know that
we were prepared. One of the last thing I did was to write a letter,
embodying all my adventures, and address it to Lucille. I arranged
that if I was killed it should be forwarded to her. Then there was
little to do but wait for the foe. It was not a long delay.
Scouts who had been sent out came back on the eve of the sixth
day after Burroughs’ death. They reported that they had seen the
fires of the Indians, who evidently were using but little of their usual
cautiousness. It was some relief to know that action was at hand, for
nothing so saps a man’s courage as to sit in idleness and wait for the
unknown.
We had taken every possible precaution. I doubled the sentinels,
and the cannon were ready loaded. And the next night, when the
watch was changing, the Indians came. There were a few shots fired
aimlessly, and then followed the war cry. It rose and fell on the night
air, echoing from the hill, and resounding throughout the silent
woods. We might expect the battle in the morning. I ordered two
cannon, loaded with small shot, to sweep the bushes before the fort.
Though we probably did little damage, yet it told them we were
awake.
There was little sleep for any of us that night.
Every one was on the alert, for we knew that early dawn would
set the Indians at us. So we sat in the darkness and watched the
fires which the Indians kindled beyond rifle shot.
I watched the stars grow dim, and a gray darkness steal over the
blackness of the night. A cold wind sprang up, and whistled
mournfully through the trees. The owls hooted, and the wolves
howled. Then the gray-black became lighter. All the stars were
blotted out now, and there in the east was a pale streak, which
gradually grew larger and larger. The dawn was come. With it came
the frightful yells of the savages, and the crack of their muskets and
rifles. They began the attack on all but the side of the fort toward
the sea, but most of their bullets found marks only in the solid logs
of the palisades. My men replied, yet, likewise, did little execution. I
saw de Castine moving about here and there among his Indians
urging them on, and I called to two of my best marksmen to try to
pick him off. Once a ball chipped a piece from his sword scabbard,
but he only looked toward the fort and bowed in mockery.
The woods seemed alive with the red men, and several, with
better rifles than their fellows, approached near enough to fire
through the loops. I had three men wounded this way, one so badly
that he died in a short time. Another was made blind by log splinters
knocked into his eyes by a bullet. Yet we had not been idle. The
cannon were of little use, so scattered was the foe, but once a knot
of them gathered at the left of the fort, about one of their number
who had been hit. It was a chance that one of our gunners did not
miss, and a charge of small shot from the cannon was sent hissing
into their midst. When the smoke lifted five dark forms stretched out
on the ground showed what execution had been done. After this the
savages remained quiet for a time. It was now noon, so I ordered a
hasty meal served to the company. We were interrupted in the
eating by a loud cry from one of the sentinels in the fort.
“A sail!” he shouted. “Hasten, Captain; there are ships
approaching!”
 I ran to the lookout, and there, approaching under a stiff breeze,
were to be seen two sloops; and the decks were crowded with
armed men. I could see, also, that on board were several cannon
and mortars. Now, indeed, was our fight like to be most desperate.
I ordered the cannon facing the sea to be run out of the ports.
Then, bidding Cory to look to defending the land side, I waited for
the sloops to come within range. Within a half hour they had stood
in nearer to shore, and we let fly at them. A few splinters knocked
from the bow was all the damage we did to one. But the other fared
less well, for one of our shots slivered the main mast near the deck.
A cheer went up from our company. In reply the sloops fired two
broadsides, and badly smashed one corner of the fort, besides
injuring four men, and killing one. The vessels now drew around a
point, and out of range. We could see them preparing to land the
men and the cannon. I made no doubt that Iberville was there in
charge of the force.
It was not long before two of the mortars were in position to fire
at us, some of the balls falling very near our magazine, and I was
fearful lest that be set on fire and explode. The battle now began in
earnest. The Indians seeing that the French had arrived, renewed
their attack, so that we were between two fires. It was rattle and
bang on all sides of us, and above all rose the fierce yells of the
Indians. But our men stuck well to their work.
I had to divide my forces, and this left both sides of the fort rather
poorly defended. Several times we were most desperately put to
prevent the Indians from swarming over the palisades. They sent
several blazing arrows on top of the fort, but the logs were green
and would not burn readily. All the afternoon we fought, only
managing to hold our own, and when night came, our situation was
most precarious.
The French continued to blaze away at us with the cannon, and
we could see that they were landing more guns, so that the morrow
promised to be full of peril for my little garrison. I dared not make a
sally, for my force was too small, and yet we were little in shape to
withstand a siege. As the darkness grew deeper, the rattle of the
muskets and the boom of the cannon, and the thud of the balls on
the wooden walls of the fort ceased. Desperate and weary, the men
sought food and rest.
As for me, I was gloomy enough. I saw no hope but to fight on to
the last. Many had been hurt; several killed. Help might come from
Boston, but it would scarce reach us in time now. I turned over
various expedients in my mind, and had dismissed them all, when a
sentinel called out:
“A white flag, Captain!”
I looked out through a loop, and saw an Indian on the clearing in
front of the fort. He had a stick, to which a white rag was tied.
Approaching without the least sign of fear, he knocked at the gate
and entered boldly when I bade a man let him in.
In his hand, besides the flag of truce, the Indian carried a letter. It
was from Castine, addressed to me.
I was told that unless the fort surrendered at break of day, it
would be stormed. We could not hope to hold out, Castine wrote;
and, after a resistance, he feared the Indians could not be restrained
from practicing their cruel tortures. A speedy capitulation was
advised.
I tore the letter into fragments, and scattered them to the wind.
“Go,” I said to the Indian messenger. “Tell your leader that I
refuse. We will fight to the last.”
“Hu,” muttered the red man, and he went out into the night that
was approaching.
He could no more than have delivered my answer when a sentinel,
from the seaward side of the fort, hastened to me with the news
that there was considerable activity among our foes, and that
several guns were being landed from the ships, and being brought
to bear on the fort.
“Let them do their worst,” I cried, as cheerfully as I could to the
men who were near me. “We will beat them yet. Will we not?”
Now, indeed, I expected that a hearty cheer would be my answer.
Instead, there was only silence. I looked at the men.
“Are you Englishmen?” I asked, scornfully. “Are you going to give
up before the battle is over?”
 “Aye, we be Englishmen,” muttered a sailor. “We be true
Englishmen, but of what is the use to fight all of France, and the
Indians, too? We are but ninety men now, and perchance, if we yield
we may get safe conduct to Boston or Salem town.”
I would have pierced the fellow with my sword had he not leaped
back. Then I looked at him. I knew him simply as Simon, one of the
sailors. Yet, as I gazed at him more keenly, I recognized him as a
man who had followed my adversary, Sir George, into the Governor’s
room, in Boston, the day I had received my commission. I recalled,
also, that Simon had ever seemed to be near me; when we voyaged
in the sloops, and when we stormed the fort at St. Johns. He was
like a man appointed to watch over me, for no good purpose. And
he had gained some hold over my men, for, when I looked from him
to them, to see if his words found echo in their hearts, there was no
one who said nay.
“You are all cowards,” I cried, but there was no answer.
Then, when I could command my voice, I asked whether it was
the wish of the garrison to surrender, and, with almost one accord,
they said it was. It was a bitter cup to drink of.
I slept not at all that night, and, several times, I was half minded
to rush out, all alone, and fight, single handed, until I was slain. But
life was sweet, and, shameful as it was, I resolved to give up the
fort. I had none to defend it, and we might be treated as prisoners
of war, to be exchanged, in due season. There was nothing else to
do, so, with sorrow in my heart, I ordered the white flag run up, as
the sun rose. Then came Castine and Iberville, the leaders, who had
been waiting for the signal.
To Iberville I handed my sword. I could not but gaze with longing
eyes on the bit of steel that had served me so well. Now I was like
never to see it nor feel it in my hand again.
But Iberville, noting my wistful glance, after he had held the
weapon in his hand a moment, poising it as one who well knew its
worth, said:
“’Tis a pretty blade.”
“Aye,” I answered, bitterly. “It has found sheath in many an
English foe, both French and Indian.”
 His face, that had held a smile, went dark in a second. I expected
nothing less than he would lunge at me. But he seemed to recover
himself, though with an effort, and said, graciously:
“Perchance it may again.”
And he handed me back the sword.
I was too surprised to give him thanks. Soon we were deep in the
details of the surrender. It was arranged that I was to march out at
the head of my men, and we went on board the French vessels, as
prisoners. We were to sail for Boston, to be exchanged for some
French hostages held captive there.
It was not long before we left Pemaquid in the distance, a French
garrison being in charge. The voyage was without incident, and, one
day in July, I walked ashore at Boston town, with my command.
Sending word to Governor Phips that I would call on him the next
day, I made a hasty meal, secured a horse, and was soon on the
road to Salem and to Lucille.
I could but contrast that ride with a similar one I had taken some
months back, when the snow was drifted deep over the path. Much
had happened since then. I had fought and loved, and fought, and
still was loving. And the love was of more strength than all the
battles.
I spurred the horse on, while over and over in my heart I sang but
one song, and the name of it was Lucille.
 CHAPTER X.
THE MAN AT THE INN.

At length the friendly tavern of Master Willis came into view. When
I had reached it, weary and travel-stained, I dismounted, calling for
a stable lad to see to the horse. I would but stop, I thought, to get a
change of raiment, snatch a hasty bite, and hurry on to greet Lucile.
“Have the dead returned?” quoth Willis, joyfully, as I strode into
the big room.
“Nay; ’tis myself in the flesh,” I answered, “as you may know,
when I tell you that I am most woefully hungry. Some meat and
drink, I pray you, for I must away soon again.”
The tavern keeper bestirred himself to much advantage, and it
was not long ere there was plenty on the round table. I drew up a
chair, and, while I lingered somewhat over the food, I had time to
look about the familiar apartment.
In one corner I noticed a man seated. His legs were stretched out
in lazy comfort, one foot crossed over the other, while, with a riding
whip in his hand, he switched at his boots. He seemed not to notice
me, so that I had a chance to take a good look at him. Then I knew
him for the same man who had ridden down to the beach, the day
the sloops sailed; the mysterious messenger of the night, the man
with whom I had nearly come to sword strokes in the Governor’s
room. I own I was startled, for I could not help feeling that
something portended of no happy omen.
Once he caught me looking at him, but he said nothing until I had
finished. Then he rose, lifted his hat from his head, and snapped his
whip so that it cracked like a pistol shot.
 “Good day to you, Captain Amherst,” he said. “May I have the
honor of a few words?”
As he finished he smiled, and, though I could not tell why, I hated
him for it.
“As many as you wish,” I answered, “but I am pressed for time
now. Will not another occasion do? I----”
“Some other time might serve,” he interrupted, “but I am on the
King’s business, and you know that ever presses us men of the
sword.”
Not very graciously I led the way to my former apartment, from
which I had been absent so long. Wearily I sat down, pointing to
another chair, opposite, for my visitor. He took it, doubled the riding
whip in his hands, and, with a slight bow to me, said:
“I have been waiting for your return, Captain Amherst,” and he
seemed to hesitate over the name. “I have waited ever since you
sailed against St. Johns.”
“Then you had a wearisome delay,” I responded, little heeding my
own words, for I was in haste to be away. “One, I fear, not much to
your profit or pleasure.”
“I did not look for profit,” was his reply. Then he spoke slowly, and
with a mocking, sneering tone. “But it was pleasant enough, tarrying
here--with Lucille!”
I sprang to my feet and half drew my sword, for there was more
than insult in his words; there was a threat.
“Lucille!” I cried, leaning forward and peering into his handsome,
sneering face.
“Aye, Lucille,” he answered coolly, and he never glanced at me,
but played with the buckle of his sword belt.
“We had many happy hours together,” he went on; “she and I,
while I was waiting for you.”
“Damn you!” I shouted; “what means this! Know you that----”
“Aye, I know,” was his response, and then he looked me full in the
face. He seemed to drop his jaunty, careless air, as, at midnight, a
dancer casts aside his mask. “I know,” he repeated slowly. “I know
you, and I know Lucille.”
 My sword was out in an instant, and, with its point, I menaced his
heart. But, with a coolness that I could not help admiring, he never
moved, nor did he seem at all alarmed.
“Draw, sir!” I cried out. “Draw, in the devil’s name, or I’ll run you
through where you stand! The Governor is not here now to stay our
hands. Who are you, crossing my path so often?”
“There is time enough to draw my sword when I have finished,”
he replied, never taking his eyes from my face. “So if you will but
put up your weapon, perchance there may be no need to take it
from the scabbard again, Sir Francis Dane!”
If he had struck me I could not have been more startled than at
the sound of that name. My knees grew weak from very fear, and I
sank back into my chair, while my sword which I had held
outstretched, clattered to the oak floor.
That my secret had been laid bare, after so many years, when I
supposed it safely buried across the sea, shook me as a tempest
might a sapling.
“Have I touched you with the point?” asked the stranger, as he cut
the air with the little whip.
“Yes! A thousand times, yes!” I cried, and I leaped at him, and
would have run him through on the instant with my sword, which I
recovered from the floor, had he not nimbly sprang behind the bed.
There he stood, his face working with emotion, his eyes glaring,
and his hand clasped so tightly on his sword hilt that his knuckles
went white with the strain. I lunged at him again and again, fiercely,
blindly, almost, until, in very shame at thrusting at one who had no
weapon out, I stopped and stood breathless, like one who had run
far.
“Why do you stand there, silent?” I panted. “Are you a man, or---
-?”
“Perchance a witch,” he replied, with an air of easy assurance. “I
hear there be many hereabouts. Indeed, no later than yesterday
three were hanged on the hill yonder.”
I started, in sudden fear, for his words brought back to my mind
the witch trial, some months past.
 For a space there was silence in the chamber, and I could hear our
breaths, as we stood gazing at each other. Then he spoke.
“Well, what is it to be?” he asked. “Peace or war?”
“War!” I cried. “War to the end, now that you know what you do!”
“Very good, then,” was his answer. “But, perchance you will
hearken to me for a little. Proclaim an armistice, as it were?”
I nodded, as one in a dream, for I seemed to be asleep, watching
all these things transpire, but taking no part in them.
“What would you say,” he went on, “if I told you that I held a
warrant from His Most Gracious Majesty, King William, for the
apprehension of one Sir Francis Dane, or, as he is known now,
Captain Edward Amherst? The charge being high treason.”
“What would I say? Why, that you lied most damnably.”
“Have a care!” he whispered, rather than spoke, and his hand fell
to his sword hilt with a quick motion. “Have a care! I have suffered
much from you. Do not tempt me too far.”
“I am no traitor,” I said proudly, “for I have but now returned from
the defense of Pemaquid, which, though it fell was only given up in
the face of heavy odds, and because the garrison would not stand
by me. I am no traitor. Ask the men who tramped the woods and
sailed the sloops with me.”
“Then this must be in error,” was his sudden exclamation. He
threw a parchment to me across the bed, behind which he still was,
and, while I unrolled it he came out, and sat in the chair again. I
recognized the royal arms of England.
“Read,” he said. And then he settled back in his chair most
comfortably, as one disposed to listen to some pleasant tale.
I read. True enough it was a warrant for Sir Francis Dane, formerly
of the army of “that arch-traitor” Duke Monmouth. All the way
through I read the scroll, my heart growing heavier as I proceeded.
“Does it suffice?” he asked.
“Aye,” I answered, moodily.
I turned toward him.
“It is enough,” I went on, pacing back and forth. “But, look you,
sir, I know not your name. Not that it matters greatly.”
 “I am Sir George Keith, at your service, and at that of His
Majesty,” he said, smiling and bowing low.
“Well, then, Sir George Keith, what is to prevent me from
destroying this warrant? From casting it into the fire, thus----?”
With a quick movement I tossed the parchment into the blazing
pile of logs on the hearth, Willis having kindled them, though there
was little need of warmth.
The sheepskin burned in a sudden puff of flame, but Sir George
never turned his head to see what became of it.
“It was but a copy,” he said.
“Then what is to prevent me from killing you?” was my next
question.
“Would one tainted with treason, add to his crimes and attack the
King’s messenger? Or if he dared, that same bearer of the royal
warrant might have somewhat to say touching on the killing. I am
no schoolboy to be frightened by words!”
I knew he spoke the truth, and I sat down again.
“Perchance,” went on Sir George, “I may weary you with the tale,
but I will relate it, and if I tire you I pray your pardon.”
Then while the shadows grew long outside, and the darkness
settled deeper and deeper over the earth, I listened as one not fully
awake, who hears a voice afar off.
“There is little need,” said Sir George, “of telling that which you
know better than I do. How you were of the personal guard of
Monmouth, and how, when the last battle went against him you fell
into the hands of King James’ men, that day on Sedgemoor field. Of
your trial before his Worshipful Honor, Judge Jeffreys, and his
merciful sentence that you be sold as a slave, instead of being
hanged, as you, and all that army of ragamuffins deserved, I need
not speak. You recall how Lord Cordwaine begged that you might be
given to him so he could sell you into slavery. You managed to
escape from prison, none knew how, before Lord Cordwaine had
secured you, and you fled.
“The noble lord reported his loss to His Majesty, and, being in
great favor then, the King granted a royal warrant for you, that,
wherever you could be found, you might be brought back to England
as a traitor, to be dealt with as Lord Cordwaine might elect. That was
seven years ago.
“Of your wanderings in that time I have heard a little. How, having
sold your sword to prince after prince in Europe, you finally came to
America, and offered your services to His Excellency, Sir William
Phips, under the name of Captain Amherst. I have had a long search
for you.
“Do not think that I followed you over seas all these years merely
to gratify the revenge, or satisfy the whim of Lord Cordwaine. He
might rot in hell for all I cared,” and Sir George, with a vicious snarl
to the words, doubled his riding whip until it snapped in twain.
“No,” he proceeded, “I sought you for myself; for my own ends.”
I looked at him, trying to fathom whither he might be drifting. He
had no more of the careless air, and his tone had changed to a low,
intense and rapid one.
“Can you call to mind,” he asked, “when the last charge was made
at the ditch that proved so disastrous to Monmouth’s forces?”
“Yes,” I said, my memory going back to the fierce struggle
between farmers and religious fanatics on one side, and trained
soldiers on the other.
“Do you remember how, when a dark haired lad, aye he was but a
boy, opposed you as you urged your horse on?”
“Yes,” I answered, as one awaking from a sleep.
“Then,” came from Sir George suddenly, “call to mind also how
you cut him down with a single stroke, though you might have
disarmed and spared him, for he could not have prevailed against
you. His life’s blood dyed the marsh, and he was trampled under
foot, a shapeless mass. Do you recall that?” The words were hurled
at me with every look of hate.
“It was in a fair fight,” I said, somewhat sorry for the lad. “I had to
save myself. It was give and take, no quarter asked or granted; no
time to parry.”
“I saw the blow. I marked who gave it,” went on Sir George. “Had
not my horse fallen under me then you would ne’er have dealt
another. A sudden surge in the battle carried me from you, but I
knew I could remember your face, your form; and I vowed----,” a
strong emotion seized the man,--“I vowed your death when once
more we should stand face to face. Now after many years that time
has come. For--for----”
He seemed to choke with the words.
“Was he----?” I began softly.
“He was my only brother,” he replied, “and his death broke my
mother’s heart, and sent my father to an early grave.”
“’Twas the fortune of war,” I answered, but I had no heart to mock
his grief.
After a pause he went on.
“When the prisoners were taken,” he said, “I sought among them
for you. One day, to my joy, I saw you penned in with others like the
cattle you were. I hastened to the King to beg one boon: that you
might be given or sold to me. But Lord Cordwaine, curse him, was
before me, and he had chosen you among others that the King gave
him. His Majesty dared not, for reasons of policy, offend Lord
Cordwaine, by making the change.
“I begged and pleaded with the lord that he would give you to
me, but he was short of purse, and had made a bargain to sell you
as a slave. I had not money enough or I would have been the buyer.
“Then came your sale to the slave dealer, and your escape from
prison, before Lord Cordwaine had delivered you to the purchaser.
He secured a royal warrant for your arrest, wherever you might be
found, on the charge of high treason. Fearful that you might escape
my vengeance I besought Lord Cordwaine to let me serve the
document. Glad that he was not to be out of pocket by the
arrangement he consented. Since then I have followed you from
place to place, always arriving just as you had gone. I lost track of
you when you sailed for this land, but now I can reap my reward.”
I know not what prevented me from springing at him then and
ending it all. I wish I had. Perhaps it was his devil’s coolness, or his
mastery over my feelings that held me to my chair. He proceeded
after a pause, not heeding that I had risen as he began again.
“When King James fled,” he went on, “I managed to acquire some
influence at the court of William and Mary. The warrant was
renewed, though Lord Cordwaine, to my joy, died in the meantime,
and I knew I could have you all to myself when I found you. So I
continued my search, and now I have found you--and Lucille.”
“What of Lucille?” I cried. “Would you drive me mad by harping on
her name, as if you had a right to use it? Speak, man. What are you
to her, or what is she to you? There is some mystery here, of which I
have had enough. Now out with it, or, warrant or no warrant, I’ll run
you through as I would a dog.”
“What of Lucille?” repeating my words in a sneering tone. Then
changing suddenly: “This of Lucille. That I love her better than life.
Aye, I love her more than I hate you, and God knows that hate is as
wide and as deep as the sea. I love her; I love her, and she loves
me! For Lucille de Guilfort is my wife!”
 CHAPTER XI.
A MAN AND HIS WIFE.

I was like a man who saw death before him when I heard his
words. Lucille his wife, when but a few short months ago she had
promised to be mine. She had let me woo and win her, knowing that
she had no right--that I had no right!
“Oh God!” I cried; and then I stopped, for I did not know what I
might pray for; her death, or his or my own. Yet with it all I loved
her; more than ever.
A great grief or a great joy stuns for the moment. So it was with
me. My heart’s dearest idol was shattered; crumbled into dust, and,
instead of pain, there was a numbness and a feeling that I had
never known before. I raised my hand to my head as if I would
brush away cobwebs from my eyes.
“Lucille,” I began, in so strange a tone that I started at the word,
and the silence seemed broken by my tone as by a thunder clap.
“Lady Keith,” corrected Sir George, smiling.
There came to me a faint hope like a star dimly seen amid a storm
sky. Perchance he had forfeited the right to call her wife. What else
could mean her shrinking from him, her fear when they had met,
and I had been near to see? Oh, if it could but be true! My eyes saw
clearer, and my hand became firmer.
“I have no privilege to ask,” I began, yet I hoped for an answer,
“but I had been led to believe otherwise of--of--Lu--of Lady Keith.”
“Aye, I suppose so,” was his answer, in a biting tone. “I am in little
mood for the telling, yet I will relate how it came to pass; for there
have been strange goings on since Mistress Lucille became Lady
Keith.”
 Then as we two stood there, each with deadly hatred of the other
in his heart, he began:
“I met Lucille and fell in love with her some five years ago. I first
saw her in Paris, where I had gone in quest of you. There I lingered
unable, because of the witchery of her eyes, to leave. We met often,
for I contrived to prevail on her father to let me give her lessons in
English. And you may guess I lost no opportunity of giving her
lessons in love at the same time. Well, my suit prospered, and in a
year we were wed, both as happy as lovers proverbially are.
“Then one day, ’twas a small matter, to be sure, but there was a
story that some court lady had been found in my bed chamber. Only
a trifle, for she had been there to gain my friendship in a matter
concerning some titled personage, and called rather early, that was
all. But Lucille heard of it, and, as I could not deny that the lady was
there, why, my wife assumed that I had tired of her charms. She
flew into a great passion, and when I had imagined she would pout
a bit, and seem offended, she was most grievously angered. Hast
ever seen her in a temper?” he asked suddenly.
“No,” I said sharply. “Go on.”
“Oh, but she has one, for all her fair face,” he sneered.
It was all I could do to keep the point of my sword from his
throat.
“Proceed,” I choked out.
“Well, this small matter to me proved a large one for Lady Keith.
And her father, it seems, took it to heart also. They were of noble
blood, the de Guilforts, almost as good as the Keiths,” and he
stroked his moustache with an air of pride.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, Mistress Keith was in a great temper.
She defied me to my face; told me I had dishonored her. You know
how women are. To be brief, M. de Guilfort, with my wife and her
cousin, suddenly left Paris, when I had been called to London on a
false report that you had come back. When I returned to Paris,
expecting to find all the affair blown over, and a pair of loving arms
and ruby lips to welcome me, I found a vacant house; a cold hearth.
“I did my best to trace them but failed. Then, like a man without
hope, hating yet loving, loving yet hating, I went to the wars, and
finally came to America. And here, thanks to the fates I have found
both my enemy and my love.”
“Is that all?” I asked, for I wished to hear the end before I killed
him.
“No,” he said bitterly, “not all. When I became attached to the
army of the Massachusetts Colony, the first act of Governor Phips
was to send me with a message to you here. I little guessed who I
should find Captain Edward Amherst to be, much less did I hope to
meet with Lucille in Salem town.
“When I galloped to her house that night, not finding you at the
inn, I saw, in the dim light, she whom I had been seeking so long. I
had no eyes for you then beyond a glance. But when I had ridden
away, not desiring to press matters at once, your face came before
me, and I knew I had found one other I had been in search of. I
shouted aloud for joy.
“I hastened to Boston, where I had left the royal warrant, and I
returned with all speed. You had already sailed with the two sloops,
though I tried to hail you from the shore to which I galloped.
However, I thought that you would return, and, when I looked and
saw Lucille, I hardly cared whether you came back or not.”
“Is that all?” I asked again, softly. For I saw, of a truth now, that
one of us was like to die; and I did not think it would be me.
“Not quite all,” he said.
He paused to cast a hasty look at me, then he went on.
“While waiting for you I had time to renew my acquaintance with
my dear wife,” he said mockingly.
“And--and have you persuaded her that you are a true and loyal
husband?” I asked, hesitating bitterly over the words.
“Nay, curses on it,” he cried. “Why, man, ’twould be laughable, but
that I am more in love with her than ever. Fancy a man in love with
his wife a second time, yet not allowed to greet her, to call upon her,
save in the presence of a serving maid, not to take her hand, to kiss-
---”
I started forward, with what intent I know not, for the memory of
those kisses I had pressed on Lucille’s lips came back to me. I felt
that one of us, for the sake of the honor of Lucille, must die.
 “Then your second suit is not favored, as was the first?” I
inquired.
“Nay,” he replied bitterly. “Why, ’tis town gossip now that she loves
you, for no one is aware that she is my wife yet. A pretty tale, is it
not? How the French maid fell in love with the Captain that casts
great rocks as though they were but pebbles.”
“You lie, damn you!” I cried. “She did love me, perhaps. But it was
before she knew she had no right.”
“No right?”
“My life upon it, she did not know, Sir George. She either believed
you dead, or knew that she was no more bound to you than to the
veriest beggar.”
Yet, though I spoke the words boldly, there was both pain and
fear in my heart. When a man begins to doubt a woman there is no
middle way. But I could not, with honor, do less than defend the
name of one I had loved--nay, of one I loved still.
“Oh, a truce to fine words,” was the reply. “All women are alike;
off with the old, on with the new. Since she has found you she has
no use for me. I might as well talk of my love to the trees or to the
rocks as to Lucille, my own wife, since you have kissed her.”
I started.
“Ha! That was but a chance shot, yet it struck,” he cried; and he
laughed, though it echoed more like a wail than a sound of
merriment.
“But I love her,” he went on. “Oh, God, how I love her! I love her
so much that I will, for the sake of it, be cheated of my revenge.
With you away I could have hope. But now----”
Outside the wind blew in mournful gusts, for a storm was brewing.
“Hark you, Sir Francis Dane,” he continued. “I will not call you by
that name, though, for you have forfeited it. Listen, Captain
Amherst; if you will but consent to leave the Colony, leave Lucille,
and go away, I, in turn, will forget my brother’s death, my
vengeance, and you. The royal warrant shall be destroyed, and you
may walk the earth a free man, fearing not any one. Only go. Leave
Lucille to me. I can win back her love. See, I will write now a full and
free pardon for you, and will transmit it to the King. Will you go?”
 It was dark by this time, and the flickering flames, dying amid the
ashes, like a hopeless love, faintly illuminated the apartment, as we
stood facing each other.
It was strange, when, for the moment I stopped to think of it.
Here was a man pleading with another for what was his right.
Pleading to be allowed to woo his own wife. Begging that I would
give up my love and go away so that his suit might be unhampered.
Verily I had never heard of such a thing before, though I knew that
love was a strange master. Sir George was asking of me with words
what I might expect to be required by the sword. Yet, though I had
no right to the love of Lucille, his wife, he did not draw, even as I
moved back, and stood on guard.
Whereat I marveled, for he was not a man to accept lightly the
dishonor I had put upon him.
 CHAPTER XII.
THE TIME OF PERIL.

Of what use to stay in Salem now, that my love had come to such
a sorry end? Yet I did not like that he should triumph over me, nor
would I purchase my freedom at the price he offered.
To stay? To go?
“I will remain here,” I said, after a moment’s pause. He made a
gesture that showed his displeasure. “But mistake me not, Sir
George, Mistress Keith shall see no more of me. I stay, not on her
account, but my own. Now, enough of womenkind. With you it
seems I have a score to settle yet.”
Sir George nodded his head.
“You have made threats,” I went on. “You feel aggrieved; you
consider me your enemy, and I, no less, you mine. The Danes are
not accustomed to shun danger; to permit old scores to be
unsatisfied; to leave an enemy behind them. Therefore I stay, Sir
George.”
He made as if he would go, but I stood before him. He was
looking beyond me with a curious glint in his eyes, and, though I
was directly in his path, he did not seem to notice me.
“Draw, sir,” I commanded, gently. “Let us see who of us shall go or
stay; who of us shall die? There have been enough of threats. Draw,
sir; I pray you.”
Still he looked beyond me as if at some vision behind the oak
walls, until stung by his indifference I came so close up against him
that his arm touched mine.
“Will you not fight?” I cried, peering into his eyes that refused to
see me.
 He said not a word, but ever continued to gaze away.
“Come,” I sneered, “will you do me the honor to cross swords?”
“Not with a traitor,” was his sudden answer.
“Nor I with a coward,” I exclaimed. I snatched up the broken whip
and struck him full in the face with it. The blow raised a red weal
from his eye to his chin.
I have seen wild beasts aroused, and raging Indians mad with the
lust of murder, yet I never saw such a look as came into the face of
that man when I struck him. Verily I shrank back somewhat, and my
sword went up on guard. But with a fierce mastery of the passion
that must have been tearing at his very heart, Sir George moistened
his lips with his tongue, and hoarsely whispered:
“Are you mad? No man ever yet struck me and lived after it. But
the sword of a gentleman and a soldier is too good for such as you,
traitor that you are. I will not sully my steel with your blood. Think
not, though, that you will escape me. Die you shall, but in such
manner as no man died before;” and, ere I could stop him he had
rushed from the room, and I was alone.
There was half a thought in my mind to follow him, but I did not
care to engage with him on the open highway, and I knew I would
meet with him again. That he meditated some evil to me I was sure.
What it might be I could not say.
Well, I would be off now to see Lucille after my long absence. I
stopped with a jolt, as suddenly as does a trooper whose horse balks
at a hedge. Lucille!
“Ha!” I cried, gaily. “Nay, Lucille no more, but Lady Keith. What a
fool I’ve been to let her see that I loved her. What a fool any man is
to love a woman. What fools men are, anyhow, at all times.
“Bah! Lucille! And she took my kisses.
“What ho! Well, ’tis many a stolen kiss a soldier has, and mine had
been purloined favors, though I knew it not. Why, then, should I
give her up? She loved me, even her husband admitted that. And
why had not I, whom she loved, a better right, to her than he whom
she loved not? With some there would have been but one answer to
this. A clash of steel, and, right or wrong, he who loved and won,
would have her whom he fought for. Why not I? What if she was his
wife?
“Should love recognize limitations of earthly honor? Why not cast
honor as men saw it to the winds? With Sir George out of the way I
would have naught to fear from his warrant, and his wife--bah! the
words went bitter in my mouth--his wife could then be mine. I had
no doubt that in a combat with him I could be the victor. We had
quarreled, I had struck him. If he was a man he must fight after
that. Then a meeting early in the morning, a clash of swords, a
lunge, a feint, a trick I knew well, having had it from a master of the
art, and that would be the end. The end of all save my happiness
with Lucille.
“No!”
I spoke the word aloud. I had not sunk so low as that. It would be
sad indeed if love gave such license. There was but one way out of
the matter. If I stayed in Salem I must fight Sir George, and all
would say that I had slain him that I might take his wife.
Love would be sweet, with Lucille to share it with me, but not love
with dishonor. Therefore I must go.
Heigh-ho! This, then, was an end to all my dreams. Nothing left to
battle for save life, and that was scarce worth the struggle. I tried to
banish the memory of Lucille from me, but I could not. Her whisper
that she loved me sounded in my ears loud above the din of the
fights I had passed through. One right I had still. To love her in
secret, to know that she loved me, and, knowing that, to let it be the
end.
It was night now. There came a knock on my door, and Willis
entered.
“What, not gone?” he asked. “Why, I thought you were in haste to
be away.”
“So I was,” I answered, with a short laugh, “but I have changed
my mind now. Much haste oft means a slow journey. I’ll stay here
with you. Let us have some wine up, Master Willis. ’Tis so long since
I have tasted any that my throat has forgot the flavor. Bring plenty,
for when a man has been to the wars there is need of some cheer
on his return, even though he comes conquered instead of a
conqueror.”
He brought the wine, and we drank together, I not so much that I
wanted the drink, but companionship.
“How goes the witchcraft here, Willis?” I asked. “I heard ’twas
broke out again, as I came through Boston.”
“Hush,” he said, glancing around as though he feared some one
would hear me. “Verily it is most horrible. The townspeople have
gone mad, it seems. Scarce a day goes by that some poor woman or
man is not accused of being in league with the devil, or banded with
witches to work evil spells. The Colony groans under the terrors, for
nearly half a score of people have been put to death after being
convicted of witchcraft.
“Neighbors have denounced and testified against neighbors;
fathers against sons, and daughters against their mothers.”
“Why, ’tis worse than I dreamed,” I said.
“Aye, it is bad enough,” responded Willis, glancing behind his chair,
as if he expected to see a witch perched on the bed post.
“There are strange tales told,” he went on, “of how witch meetings
are held on the common, and those who have been witness to them
say they see the forms of their acquaintances riding athwart
broomsticks or fence rails in the air.
“Let but a cow be taken sick, and straightway ’tis said that the
animal is bewitched. Then the owner goes before the judges and
swears some poor dame has cast an evil spell on the beast. The
woman is taken and put in gaol, and little enough as the evidence is
sometimes, she is condemned and hanged. Oh, I promise that you
will see horrors enough if you stay here long.
“Why, no further back than six days one man was accused
because he was so strong that the witch-crazed people said he must
have had help from Satan to lift the weights he did. He was taken,
tried and executed.”
“I am like to suffer then,” I said, laughing. “Do you recall the big
stone by the brook?”
“Heaven forbid,” said Willis. “But do not laugh, Captain. It is no
small matter when half the townsfolk are crazed, and the other half
ready to follow where the first lead. Surely you must have noticed
how distraught the people were as you came along.”
“Nay,” I answered, “I was thinking of other matters. But I
remarked that the few friends I passed in the road seemed not to
know me. But what does it signify?”
“Much,” proceeded Willis. “Much in very truth. No man’s life nor
liberty is safe now. It is a perilous time. Why, Salem gaol to-night
holds two score poor wretches, whose only fault is some one has
said they are witches.
“And more. The Governor has sent a special court with judges and
constables and soldiers to attend to the trials. They are fearsome
ordeals, too. It is ordained that if the accused one will confess that
he is a witch that one may go free, for, it is said, that being a witch,
by confession in the presence of a minister, the spirit of Satan is
abashed, and leaves the body. But many will not confess,
maintaining, even on the scaffold that they are innocent, and all
such have been put to death. So many have been executed that
there is fear in many hearts.
“Some are tried by water. They are thrown into the mill pond, and
if they sink they are free from the accusation of witchcraft. Little
good it does the poor souls though, for they never live to know that
they are innocent. A true witch will float, ’tis said, and all such are
killed.”
“Do you speak the truth?” I asked, for I could scarce believe what
I heard.
“As I live,” answered Willis. “It is a time for every man to look to
himself, especially if he has an enemy. Many of the witch trials, I
believe, are but vents for the enmity which cannot be satisfied in
other ways. A few of the accusers, however, seem in earnest,
claiming that their maladies and troubles are spells of their enemies,
and the afflicted ones call out the names in great agony.”
“Bah! Willis,” I said. “You are chicken-hearted from staying too
much at home.”
“Wait and see,” replied the inn keeper. Then he left me.
I did not want to go to bed yet; there was no sleep in me; so I
resolved to walk out to let some of my busy thoughts fly away, if
they would. The moon was up, a big round silver disk, larger than
the head of a cider barrel. It cast long shadows across the road and
fields.
As I tramped on toward, I knew not where, nor cared, I found my
steps leading, unconsciously, to the home of the woman I loved.
I half turned back. No. I would go on. Not to see her. Not to clasp
her in my arms, as I had hoped to do. Never that again. I would but
pass by on the other side. It was to be my farewell.
There was a light burning in the house when I came up to it. I
fancied I could see through the window in the glare of the candle
Lucille. Yes, there she was. Like a thief in the night I crept nearer
until I could discern her face. Her head was resting on her hands;
she seemed waiting for some one. I prayed it might be me, yet she
must wait in vain.
Nearer I went. She turned, and gazed out into the night, straight
at me. But I slipped into the shadow of an oak tree, that by no
chance she might see me. She was more beautiful than ever. Oh,
why had she not told me all that was in the past, before she let me
love her.
The wind rustled through the trees, sighing like a lost soul, a most
mournful sound. I stretched up my hands to the sky; I reached them
out to the woman I loved. Both were beyond me.
Once more I looked at her. She had risen from her seat. She
stooped over the candle, so that the glare showed me her fair face,
the ringlets of her hair, the soft curve of her throat, all her loveliness.
“Lucille!” I cried, but the word was tossed back to me by the wind.
“Lucille!” I whispered, but a moonbeam stole her name away.
“Lucille!” She snuffed the candle, and it went out in a blur of
darkness, so that the night swallowed her up, and I was left alone.
Then with the bitter heart of a man who has no sweetness left in
life I came away.
As I took the road to the inn I thought that once or twice along
the path, half hidden by the trees, a form followed me. I stopped,
and looked intently at the black shadow.
An owl hooted mournfully, a frog croaked in a near-by pool, and a
cricket chirped pleasantly from the grass.
 “’Twas the owl,” I said, and I passed on.
Again I heard a dry twig snap as if some heavy animal or a man
had stepped on it. This time, as I halted to looked about I heard not
far off the howl of a lone wolf.
“It was the wolf,” I muttered, “after a stray sheep,” and I walked
on, for the night was chill, and I was not warmly clad.
I had reached the inn, and hurried to my room. Then I looked
from the window, and I saw passing across the fields the figure of a
man.
“Ho,” I whispered, “it was no wolf then.”
But I looked again and saw that the man was Sir George Keith.
“Aye, it was a wolf,” I said.
 CHAPTER XIII.
IN SALEM GAOL.

I dreamed that night I was back in Pemaquid, with the cannon

pounding away at the fort, bringing the stout timbers down about
my ears. I fought the fight over again, and suddenly awoke in the
gray dawn of the morning to hear a thundering summons at my
door.
“Hello!” I cried, springing from bed, and seizing my sword. My
eyes were heavy with sleep, and I thought the Indians were upon
us.
The knock came once more, and it did not sound so loud to me
when I had shaken off some of the slumber.
“Who’s there?” I called again.
“’Tis I, John Putnam, constable of Salem town under His Most
Gracious Majesty, the King,” was the reply.
A nameless dread, a chill, seized me, though I knew not the
reason for it. As the constable’s words died away I detected the
sound of moving feet beyond the oak door that separated us. I
thought at once that Sir George had sent the royal warrant for
treason to be executed upon me.
“Wait,” I cried, wishing to gain a little time. Then for an instant I
reasoned with myself. What should I do? Give battle now, trusting to
break through the ranks of those the constable had brought with
him, and, if successful, flee? Or tarry and see the affair through? I
did not like to run for it on the first appearance of danger. Perhaps
after all I could find a way of escape. So in the next instant I had
made up my mind to take my arrest quietly.
 I had an idea that the fighting I had done in behalf of the Colony
would stand me in good stead, and serve to gain me a pardon from
the court.
Once more the summons came.
“We’ll not wait much longer,” was the warning from without.
“Then enter,” I called, flinging open the door. I stood face to face
with a half score of men, all armed, who well nigh filled the little
hall. John Putnam, the constable, was at their head.
“Your errand?” I inquired, shortly, thinking I knew it as well as he.
“I have a warrant, a royal warrant, for your body,” began the
constable pompously.
“I know it full well,” was my answer.
I noticed that the bodyguard, accompanying Master Putnam,
looked one at the other at this. A burly red-haired farmer, who
clasped his flint-lock as he would a club, whispered to the man next
him:
“Mark you that, neighbor Passden? There is Satan’s work. He hath
informed the Captain in advance of our coming, and of the royal
warrant, which our worthy constable has not even yet removed from
his jacket pocket. Saw you ever the like?”
“Hush! Not so loud,” murmured the one addressed. “Aye, ’tis
fearfully marvelous. But speak not of it, or he may cast a spell of the
evil on us,” and the two shrank away.
I heard the whispers, but knew not what it all meant. I looked at
the constable, seeking an explanation.
“I hold a warrant,” he went on, “against you, Captain Edward
Amherst, charging you with certain detestable arts called witchcraft.”
“What!” I cried. “Have you lost your senses, Master Putnam?”
“Nay, hear me out,” he protested, drawing a parchment with a red
seal dangling therefrom, out of his pocket. The men closed up
around me.
“You are charged,” the constable continued, slanting the
document, so as to catch the light of the rising sun from an east
window full upon it, “charged with practicing witchcraft, and
sorceries, wickedly and feloniously, upon and against Deliverance
Hobbs, Benjamin Proctor and John Bly. All of whom last night made
depositions of the facts before our gracious and most worthy Honor,
Justice Hathorne. And I hereby arrest you, Captain Amherst, on this
warrant. You will be arraigned for trial this day at the court of Oyer
and Terminer, to be holden here by Justices Hathorne and Corwin.
You are, therefore, my prisoner.”
The constable folded the warrant together, and I noticed, when
too late, that he had been gradually edging himself nearer to me.
Suddenly he sprang at me, and threw his arms around mine, pinning
my hands to my sides. I had been stunned by the quick change from
what I had been expecting to that which I never dreamed of. But
when I felt the hands of the constable upon me, his arms about my
body, my resolve to submit quietly flew to the wind, and I nerved
myself for the coming struggle.
I spread my arms apart, and easily forced off the hold of the
constable. Then I turned quickly and picked Master Putnam up as if
he had been but a small barrel of cider. I cast him out of the door, so
that he fell against the crowd of men, and some of them were
knocked down, none too gently, I fear, by his flight through the air.
Then I drew my sword from the scabbard, and stood ready to
defend myself, but they were a trifle wary now about advancing. For
perhaps a minute I stood thus, holding them at bay with the point of
my weapon.
But one man unobserved had crawled into the room behind me.
Of a sudden I felt something fall over my head and slip down about
my arms. It was a rope noose, and it was quickly pulled taut, so that
my hands were fastened to my sides. I was helpless in an instant,
with no chance to use my sword.
“At him now, neighbors!” cried a big farmer, casting his flint-lock to
the floor. “The Lord of Hosts is on our side, and He will enable us to
prevail, and overcome the mighty disciple of Satan.”
“Aye, at him now, at him now! Kill the witch!” cried others.
On came the crowd with a rush, seeing that I was fast bound and
helpless. However, with a kick from each foot in turn I disabled two
of the constable’s guard as they sought to fall upon me, but the
others were too many to cope with, and they forced me down by
sheer weight and numbers. More ropes were brought and soon I
was tied as neatly as a fowl trussed for roasting.
Without a word they carried me away in that sorry fashion,
Constable Putnam limping along in the rear of the procession, for it
appeared he had been somewhat hurt when he went out of the door
so quickly.
I was taken to Salem gaol, and when it was reached, the iron
studded door swung open, and I was thrust among two score
others, suspected of witchcraft, who were waiting trial. A groan went
up as I was added to their company. The door banged shut, hiding
from view the pleasant sun, which was just rising, and drowning the
songs of the birds.
My captors placed me on the floor with no gentle hands, and went
away. Some of the prisoners, however, lifted me up on a bench, so
that I was more comfortable in body, though not so much so in
mind.
It needed but a little thought to tell me how the matters that had
lately transpired had come about. I knew that Sir George at the
present time did not dare to urge the old charge of treason against
me because of my present loyalty to the King and the Colony. He
was afraid to fight, I believed, and, desiring revenge for my blow,
and at the same time to see me removed from where I might meet
Lucille, he had hit upon this plan to have me killed as a witch. And
his plot was like to work well.
I recalled what Willis had told me of the state of people’s minds in
regard to those suspected of witchcraft. I could realize what it meant
now. Though had I not seen some of the things I did I would not
have believed them.
I saw men and women in that gaol, who had been among the
best liked of the townspeople. Colonists of wealth, delicate mothers
and men of culture were there, herded together like sheep, and
treated like common felons. It was enough to make me cry out for
shame for my countrymen, who could be so deluded and deceived. I
forgot my own plight to see so many waiting to be sacrificed, for
what afterward proved to be a most terrible error. Aye, it was many
years ere the black memory of Salem witchcraft of 1692 was
forgotten.
Among the prisoners was Martha Cory, mother of my former
Lieutenant. She cried when she saw me, and asked for tidings of her
son. To my sorrow I could not give them, as Cory had been
separated from me when we surrendered at Pemaquid, and I had
not seen him since, though I told his mother I trusted he was safely
exchanged.
George Reed was also a prisoner. He was a brother of one of my
recruits who had fallen at the battle of St. Johns, and when I told
the brother in gaol his sorrows were added to. Dorcas Goode was
there, and Sarah Osborn, and Mary Warren; women whose sons or
brothers had marched with me to the war. Some did not return, and
if they but knew they might count themselves well off. Those were
dark days, indeed, in Salem town.
Presently I called to the jailer, and, upon my promise that I would
not try to escape, he loosened my bonds so I could walk and move
about with some freedom. Now I was not minded to be executed as
a witch, and I wanted all my strength, and nimbleness of limb, for
whatever struggle there might be ahead. Greatly did I desire to be
within sword’s length of Sir George Keith for a little while, and I
resolved that I would give him but one chance to draw his weapon.
I went about among the prisoners, and soon engaged one of the
guards in talk. From him, and from what I could piece out in my own
mind, I learned how my arrest had been brought about. Sir George,
after his meeting with me, had gone to the home of Justice
Hathorne, and had sworn to a complaint as to my witch powers. It
was easy to find others as witnesses to whom ordinary events by
reason of the excitement in the Colony, had become much changed
in meaning. So that in simple happenings such as the loss of a cow
or a sheep, the witchcraft of some neighbor was discernible. Sir
George had learned of Benjamin Proctor and John Bly, who each had
lost a cow from some disease. He had suggested that I might be the
witch who had worked evil spells upon the animals.
The two farmers, worrying over the loss of their cows, had eagerly
seized on the explanation that I was the evil spirit responsible. Sir
George had told how my strength was as the power of three men,
though my body was not overly large. He had told of the great rock I
had lifted after the mightiest man in the Colony had failed to budge
it, and thus the charges against me had grown out of nothing.
The two farmers and Deliverance Hobbs, who was an old woman,
scarce knowing what she said, were sure I was a person in league
with the devil. So they had prayed the judge, through Sir George
Keith, that I might be apprehended and brought to trial.
Sir George had induced the constable to arrest me at dawn,
saying I could be more easily taken if suddenly aroused from sleep.
So, too, he had urged that I might be given a speedy trial, that the
witchcraft in the land might be crushed out with a heavy hand, and
the powers of evil made the less. He had talked with much cunning
to the authorities, and he being, as they knew, in favor with the King
and Governor, they had done all he wished.
Thus I was in Salem gaol, with little chance of leaving it, save at
the trial, and then, perchance, it would be but a short shrift to the
gallows.
It was noon. The sun shone overhead and beat down on the
prison, but to us inside, only the reflection of the golden beams
came in through the iron barred window. Steps were heard coming
toward the door, and, as it swung open the guards thrust some
platters of food in to us. Some cakes of corn meal, with a bit of
mutton, was all there was. Scarce sufficient for half that were there.
When the jailer handed me my portion he muttered beneath his
breath:
“Of what use to feed witches, when, if they so desired, Satan
himself would bring them hell-broth through the very walls of this
gaol.”
“Say you so?” I replied, laughing bitterly. “Say you so? Then why
do we not have Satan bear us hence through these same walls if so
be we are witches. One is as easy as the other.”
“I had not thought of that,” he said, shrinking back, “the guard
without must be doubled, and Dominie Parris shall offer fervent
prayers that ye all may be safely held here.”
 During the meal I talked with some of my companions and learned
that they had been cast into prison on the most flimsy pretexts. One
old woman, because she had passed through a field where sheep
were feeding. She touched some of the lambs with her hand. The
next day some of the sheep were dead, and Elizabeth Paddock was
accused of bewitching them. Another woman was taken because,
when she had baked some dumplings an apple was found whole
inside of them, and it was said that Satan must have aided her. Still
another lad, whose mother had been hanged as a witch, was in
gaol. Grief and terror had made him out of his mind, and he
continually called out that he had turned into a witch, and saw his
mother riding through the air on a cloud of geese feathers. Salem
gaol was a most fearsome place those days.
After the rude meal, the constable, accompanied by his former
bodyguard, came to bring me to the court house. It was with no
very cheerful heart I made ready to go with him, for I could nearly
guess how the trial would end with Sir George to urge on the
witnesses. Still I could but take my chance, as I had many times
before, and I trusted to my good fortune to bring me safely through.
A man can die but once, and I wondered vaguely, as I stepped
out, whether Lucille would care if I died.
 CHAPTER XIV.
A SENTENCE OF DEATH.

When, after a walk through the town, during which our progress
was delayed by a curious throng of people who stared at me as if I
had been a wild animal, we came to the court house, there was
another gaping crowd at the door.
“Make way! Make way!” cried Constable Putnam. “Make way, good
people, for the representative of His Most Gracious Majesty.”
Another time his pompous air and his words might have called
forth jibes and ridicule from the thoughtless, but now, such was the
time and the occasion, and so deep in every heart was the fear of
witchcraft, that not a soul smiled.
The assemblage opened up in a living lane, and through it we
passed into the court room. It was filled to overflowing, as it had
been on another occasion, which I well remembered. I looked about
me, noting little change since I had sat there as a spectator a few
months back. And yet what a change there had been.
The same judges were on the bench, their Honors, John Hathorne
and Jonathan Corwin, while Master Stephen Sewall was there to act
as clerk; to take down with quill scratchings, whatever words should
fall from my lips.
On the left of the judges sat the jury. All were men of grave mien,
some of whom I knew well. They looked at me as I was brought in,
and some whispered among themselves.
Then as I glanced hurriedly over the room I saw many of my old
comrades. A few turned their heads away as if they feared I would
cast the blight of the evil eye on them. Others looked more kindly at
me. One man gazed fixedly into my face, and I was at a loss for a