



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




[Illustration: "'My heart sank within me.'" (Page 172.) _Frontispiece_]




                            The Interpreter

                           A Tale of the War


                                   By

                          G. J. Whyte-Melville

            Author of "Digby Grand," "General Bounce," etc.



                   Illustrated by Lucy E. Kemp-Welch



                                New York
                         Longmans, Green & Co.




                                CONTENTS

CHAP.

      I. The Old Desk
     II. The Deserter
    III. "Par Nobile"
     IV. Father and Son
      V. The Zingynies
     VI. School
    VII. Play
   VIII. The Truants
     IX. Ropsley
      X. Beverley Manor
     XI. Dulce Domum
    XII. Alton Grange
   XIII. "Lethalis Arundo"
    XIV. The Picture
     XV. Beverley Mere
    XVI. Princess Vocqsal
   XVII. The Common Lot
  XVIII. Omar Pasha
    XIX. "'Skender Bey"
     XX. The Beloochee
    XXI. Zuleika
   XXII. Valerie
  XXIII. Forewarned
   XXIV. "Arcades Ambo"
    XXV. "Dark and Dreary"
   XXVI. "Surveillance"
  XXVII. Ghosts of the Past
 XXVIII. La Dame aux Camellias
   XXIX. "A Merry Masque"
    XXX. The Golden Horn
   XXXI. The Seraskerat
  XXXII. A Turk's Harem
 XXXIII. My Patient
  XXXIV. "Messirie's"
   XXXV. "The Wolf and the Lamb"
  XXXVI. "The Front"
 XXXVII. "A Quiet Night"
XXXVIII. The Grotto
  XXXIX. The Redan
     XL. The War-Minister at Home
    XLI. Wheels within Wheels
   XLII. "Too Late"
  XLIII. "The Skeleton"
   XLIV. The Gipsy's Dream
    XLV. Retribution
   XLVI. Vae Victis!
  XLVII. The Return of Spring




                            THE INTERPRETER

                          _A TALE OF THE WAR_



                               CHAPTER I

                              THE OLD DESK


Not one of my keys will fit it: the old desk has been laid aside for
years, and is covered with dust and rust.  We do not make such strong
boxes nowadays, for brass hinges and secret drawers have given place to
flimsy morocco and russian leather; so we clap a Bramah lock, that
Bramah himself cannot pick, on a black bag that the veriest bungler can
rip open in five seconds with a penknife, and entrust our notes, bank
and otherwise, our valuables, and our secrets, to this faithless
repository with a confidence that deserves to be respected.  But in the
days when George the Third was king, our substantial ancestors rejoiced
in more substantial workmanship: so the old desk that I cannot succeed
in unlocking, is of shining rosewood, clamped with brass, and I shall
spoil it sadly with the mallet and the chisel.

What a medley it holds!  Thank Heaven I am no speculative philosopher,
or I might moralise for hours over its contents.  First, out flies a
withered leaf of geranium.  It must have been dearly prized once, or it
would never have been here; maybe it represented the hopes, the wealth,
the all-in-all of two aching hearts: and they are dust and ashes now.
To think that the flower should have outlasted them! the symbol less
perishable than the faith!  Then I come to a piece of much-begrimed and
yellow paper, carefully folded, and indorsed with a date,--a receipt for
an embrocation warranted specific in all cases of bruises, sprains, or
lumbago; next a gold pencil-case, with a head of Socrates for a seal;
lastly, much of that substance which is generated in all waste places,
and which the vulgar call "flue."  How it comes there puzzles equally
the naturalist and the philosopher; but you shall find it in empty
corners, empty drawers, empty pockets, nay, we believe in its existence
in the empty heads of our fellow-creatures.

In my thirst for acquisition, regardless of dusty fingers, I press the
inner sides of the desk in hopes of discovering secret springs and
hoarded repositories: so have poor men ere now found thousand-pound
notes hid away in chinks and crannies, and straightway, giddy with the
possession of boundless wealth, have gone to the Devil at a pace such as
none but the beggar on horseback can command; so have old wills been
fished out, and frauds discovered, and rightful heirs re-established,
and society in general disgusted, and all concerned made discontented
and uncomfortable--so shall I, perhaps--but the springs work, a false
lid flies open, and I do discover a packet of letters,