Chapter 3

The day has been fearfully hot. Unconscious of surroundings, every nerve
seemingly relaxed, a young man is riding along the road toward the
station. Passing a wooded strip, there is a blinding flash. With much
effort, Oswald frees himself from the limb of a tree, which in falling
broke the neck of his horse. Bewildered with pain and drenched to the
skin, he is staggering around in the mud, when a light wagon, drawn by a
fine team, comes to a sudden halt at the fallen tree. The driver turns
his conveyance around and assists the soaked victim of the storm to a
seat. Retracing the way to another road, after a roundabout journey they
stop in front of a large mansion surrounded by a grove.

The injured man is assisted to a room. A servant soon brings dry
clothing and kindles a fire.

Oswald begins to meditate upon his mishap. "Close call," murmurs he,
"and just as I had completed that grand air-castle! At the very moment
when the acclaim was the loudest and the star of Langdon seemed
brightest, that blinding flash! That terrible shock, too, and such an
oppressive feeling, until the limb was removed from my breast! What does
it mean? How like and yet unlike my last night's dream! I feel so cold,
too." He stirs the fire, which is burning cheerily, and sits down in the
cushioned chair, the blood flowing from his mouth.

Oswald soon recovers from the hemorrhage, and is aroused from his
languor by the entrance of a fine-looking man whose general appearance
indicates a life of about fifty years.

Seeing the pale face, and noting its strong outlines, yet refined
expression, he stands for a moment in silent admiration.

"How do you feel now?"

"Much better, thank you," is the feeble reply.

Perceiving his guest's weakness, he rings a bell, and upon the prompt
appearance of a servant, gives orders which are soon complied with by
the bringing of refreshments.

Oswald learns that his kind host bears the name of Donald Randolph, and
is the owner of the beautiful country-seat known as "Northfield"; that
he has a family consisting of a son and daughter; that the son is away
on a trip to India, the daughter visiting in London, but expected home
on the following day.

Wishing to know more of the girl, her age, whether single or married,
educated or otherwise, with the numerous further items of information
naturally desired by a young man of twenty-five, about the daughter of
an aristocratic, highly connected, wealthy English gentleman, Oswald,
however, has the tact and good breeding not to demand a "bill of
particulars."

There being a brief pause here, as if both feel that an important though
delicate subject is under consideration, Sir Donald becomes the
inquisitor, learning much about Oswald's past life without asking many
questions. Sir Donald manifests such kindly, unfeigned interest, so much
sympathy with Oswald's plans for the future, heartily approving of his
highest aspirations, that the young man confides unreservedly, and tells
it well.

Oswald's father was the younger son of Herbert Langdon, and for many
years had been rector of an important parish. His parents had placed
Oswald under a tutor, who had prepared him for Oxford. He had finished a
course at this institution, and was taking a pleasure trip on horseback
when the accident befell him. He now aspires to be a barrister, though
until within a few years his secret ambition had been to be a great
military leader. He had read of "St. Crispin," "Balaklava," the "Battle
of the Nile," "Trafalgar," and "Waterloo," but the military spirit is
subservient to that of commerce and diplomacy. With much sage assurance
he said:

"Massed armies, long-range ordnance, impregnable forts, steel-armored
battle-ships, and deadly, explosive coast marine mines are simply
bellicose forms of pacific, neutral notes commanding the 'peace of
Europe.' The jealousy of nations will not permit wars of conquest for
colonial extension, and the mouths of frowning cannon are imperious
pledges of international comity. Weak dynasties will find tranquillity
in the fears of more august powers. Even the unspeakable Moslem will be
unmolested in his massacres, to insure regular clipping of Turkish bonds
in money markets of European capitals."

Here Sir Donald suggested that possibly this pacific, commercial
tendency had its perils, and through unforeseen complications might
cause war.

"The enervating influences of wealth, the extreme conservatism thereby
fostered, and the resulting disposition to accept any compromise rather
than interfere with the free course of trade, may create conditions
breeding hostilities. May not such extreme aversion to commercial
disturbance, and disposition to think lightly of national honor,
compared with financial security, be bids for attack from more hardy,
martial peoples, having little respect for the prerogatives of traffic
or the hypocritical refinements of diplomatic craft? Are not such
conditions, with the luxurious licentiousness so natural thereto,
combined with the stolid indifference and poverty of the masses, most
potent factors in the decline and fall of nations?"

Struck by the force of these suggestions, Oswald is silent.

Seeing that this interesting young man is pondering upon these
possibilities and resulting changes in the maps of the world, Sir Donald
watches him with much admiration. He thinks, I may not live to behold
much of this, but would like to see a cast of his horoscope.

After a brief pause, Oswald replies:

"Serious contingencies may grow out of these tendencies of the times.
These may require diplomacy and forbearance among the powers. Barbarous
peoples would be at a great disadvantage in a conflict with any of the
greater nations of the earth. Personal prowess, resistless in the
whirlwind of the charge, is of little avail against modern artillery or
long-range ordnance. The destructive power of modern military equipment
will make adjustment of international differences by arbitration
imperative."

He hedges at this point with the suggestion:

"Still, some crazy autocrat or frenzied people at any time may bring on
far-reaching conflicts, and barbarous hordes will become menaces to
civilization if taught the art of modern warfare."

After a few minutes' further conversation of a general character, Sir
Donald bids Oswald good-night.

Being weary, Oswald soon after retired.

On the waters of a beautiful lake, under a cloudless sky, Oswald is
swiftly sailing. The breeze seconding his own skill, the boat seems
instinct with life. From the wooded bank, around a distant curve,
emerges a small sail with two persons aboard. Nearing the middle of the
lake, he sees a struggle, a splash, then a female form sinking in the
water. With its remaining occupant the boat speeds swiftly away,
disappearing beyond a jutting wooded point. Oswald's sail reaches the
spot, and he rescues the insensible form of a young woman. She revives
and becomes his loving friend. Soon a hateful, sinister face haunts
them. Many snares they unconsciously escape. There is a tangle in the
web of events. They stand upon the banks of a river, near a large city.
The girl clings to him despairingly. Their foe appears, and both are
struck from the bank into the river. Regaining the shore, Oswald flees.
Through terrible mazes he is driven over the earth, with the face of the
drowned girl before his eyes, the shadow of the gallows looming grim
and black at every turn.

With a groan Oswald awakes. The pain in his side and breast is severe,
but the dream seems much more real. He can not easily believe it to be
simply a chimera of an overwrought brain.