"The cave? _Pouf_!" and he raised both his hands with a movement indicative of an explosion. "Acting under orders from Rome, a party of engineers blew it up with dynamite. As regards the thieves, no one knows what became of them. It must be admitted, however, that they had one redeeming characteristic--that of loyalty to their exemplary sovereign!" And Major Malaspina laughed, sipped his vermouth, and lapsed into the full enjoyment of his long cigar. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A CHILD OF THE SUN. Sadness and joy, despair and ecstasy, were never so linked as they are in my soul to-night. Many men have gone mad upon far less provocation, and yet I am calm--so calm with this whirligig of emotions that I surprise myself. Ah! it will not be long ere it is all over. Death will bring oblivion, the game will stop; and though joy, ecstasy, and delight all flee, sadness, misery, and despair will be banished with them. Remorse will cease to gnaw--that everlasting longing for what can never be will end its torture, and I shall be at peace. But if there should not be rest beyond the grave? Bah! I'm upset, and I imagined I was calm. There is a superlative in suffering as in everything, else, and I have reached it. Death at its worst can have no further horrors. Three drops from this phial in my hand into that glass of cognac at my elbow, and my ticket is made out. One gulp, and I shall have started on my journey. Ah! it was not an unpleasant draught--slightly bitter, perhaps. The spirit was strong--a bitter potion, a sweet release. It is merely a question of time; a few minutes now, and I shall be carried from the here to the hereafter. How strangely my memory stirs! Am I dreaming? Or am I really growing young again? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is the evening of a hot August day. The sun has disappeared in a blaze of crimson and gold. The breeze rises, and the broad. Plage at Scheveningen is swept by the refreshing wind scudding across the North Sea. Long, sharp-crested, snowy waves are breaking into hissing spray on the shore, and, chased in by the heavy weather, the picturesque Dutch fishing-smacks fly like gulls to reach the anchorage behind the lighthouse towards Loosduinen. The Casino is ablaze with light on top of the high dune dominating the villas and hotels that line the beach. There is dancing this evening, for the season is "at its height," as _Le Petit Courrier_ says. Men of the _haut ton_ are promenading on the broad terrace, and gazing on the file of fair ladies who are arriving, one after the other, in ball dress. They are mainly Belgians in queer hats, and Parisians in limp cravats, but there are some Dutch and English among them, and these are none the less merry. Close to me half a dozen loungers are smoking cigars and talking loud enough for me to overhear. A handsome, elderly fop sets the key, and the others laugh in chorus whenever he utters a _bon mot_.