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Page 2
Colonel Lionel Blunt has seen much service in India and around Cape
Colony. He gained an enviable reputation for deeds of valor, and is
disposed to look upon our friend from Chicago as an amiable boy, though
after seeing how they rush things out in that Western metropolis he may
have occasional qualms of fear lest this young doctor finally reach the
goal for which both are aiming. That goal, any one can see, is the
favor of the bright English girl whom fate has thrown in their way.
Perhaps it is not all fate, since Colonel Lionel has recently crossed
the States coming from India, and seems to pursue Lady Ruth with
singular pertinacity.
Others are present, one a Maltese gentleman, the proprietor of a select
club-house, where the garrison officers fence and engage in gymnastics,
but Signor Giovani is not of our party.
There are also several commissionaires or guides, at five francs a day,
for one cannot move at Malta without being attended, and it is wise to
engage one cicerone to keep the rest of his tribe at bay.
Thus, on the hill above the singular Maltese city of Valetta, our story
opens.
Aunt Gwen is sweeping a field-glass around, and emphasizing her
admiration of the picturesque scene with various phrases that would
immediately give her away as a Western Yankee.
Lady Ruth, with an admirer on each side, looks a trifle tired, or, it
may be, bored.
She may be planning some innocent little scheme, such as girls are wont
to indulge in when they have a superfluity of beaus, in order to extract
some amusement from the situation, even if it come under the head of
"cruelty to animals."
Philander Sharpe, with his hands under the tails of his long coat, and
his glasses pushed up on his forehead, is a study for a painter.
He was once a professor in a Western college, and with his smooth face,
hair reached up from his high forehead, standing collar, and general
dignified air, is no mean-looking figure, though dwarfed into
insignificance by the side of his spouse, the wonderful Aunt Gwen.
The conversation runs upon what lies there before them, and an animated
discussion arises as to the possibility of a foreign enemy ever being
able to successfully assault this second Gibraltar of the Mediterranean.
Of course, the young American is enthusiastic, and has unbounded faith
in the new White Squadron to accomplish anything, while, on the other
hand, the British officer, like most of his class, believes that John
Bull is invincible on land or wave. Of course, the young man from
Chicago disputes the point, and energetically contends that no nation
is superior to the Republic, or that any flag can be more desperately
defended than "Old Glory."
And right in the midst of the heated discussion Lady Ruth smiles, as
though she has suddenly hit upon an idea at last--an idea that offers a
solution to the problem that has been perplexing her of late, concerning
the courage of these rival admirers.
She turns to the American, and smiles sweetly.
"Doctor, you speak of your countrymen being brave; will you prove it?"
is what she says.
The young man turns a trifle red.
"I beg your pardon. In speaking of Americans I did not intend to sound
my own praises. Personally, I never claimed more than the average amount
of boldness, though I don't know that I was ever called a coward."
His manner is modest, but the young girl with English ideas chooses to
look upon his words with suspicion.
"Doctor Chicago must not take water. I have surely understood him to be
a regular fire-eater--that all Chicago has rung with his escapades,"
says the colonel of Royal Engineers, sneeringly.
"Nonsense! But, Lady Ruth, you spoke of my proving something--what can
I do for you?"
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