The mayor's courage was applauded. There was Robert Perchon, his mother-in tears, at the thought of the peril which her son had only just escaped-a select assembly of the villagers, and the two gorgeous gendarmes from the St. Thégonnec gendarmerie. All these people perceived that the mayor was brave.

The assembly started, with the intention of making an example of the plunderer of the fields of honest men.

In front was the mayor, not looking particularly dignified, for he was white with flour, though void of fear.

In his hand he carried a mighty stick. Behind him came the gendarmes, as was befitting. They had forgotten to buckle on their swords, but in their case dignity was everything, and it was just possible that the stick of the mayor would render more deadly weapons needless. Behind-a pretty good distance behind-came the villagers. Some of them carried pitchforks, others spades. One gallant lady carried a kettle full of boiling water. It did not occur to her, perhaps, that the water would have time to cool before they reached their quarry. Madame Perchon brought up the rear, and behind her sneaked the gallant Robert.

It occurred to the mayor that this was not exactly as it ought to be. He suggested to M. Robert that as he alone knew exactly where the vagabond lay, it befitted him to lead the van. This, however, M. Robert did not see; he preferred to shout out his directions from the rear.

They entered the buck-wheat field. No persuasions would induce him to enter with the rest. He insisted on remaining outside, guiding them from a post of safety. His mother stayed to keep him company.

"By there! a little to the left! Keep straight on! If he has not gone, M. le Maire, which is always possible, you can touch him with your stick from where you are now standing!"

He had not gone.

The journey was almost done. The end was drawing near. Delirious, beside himself, fever-racked, hunger-stricken, not knowing what he was doing, the boy had sunk down in Madame Perchon's buck-wheat field to sleep. And he had slept-a mockery of sleep! A thousand hideous imaginations passed through his fevered mind. M. Robert Perchon, who had been contented with a single glance at the sleeping lad, had some warranty for his declaration that in his aspect there was something diabolical, for his limbs writhed and his countenance was distorted by the paroxysms of his fever.

Dreaming some horrible dream, the noise made by the advancing brave fell upon his fevered ear. Starting upright at M. Baudry's feet, with a shriek which horrified all who heard him, he rushed across the field, and flew as if all the powers of evil were treading on his heels. And, indeed, in a sense the powers of evil were, for he was delirious with fever.

The first impulse of the champions of the fields of honest men was to do, with one accord, what the boy had done, to turn and flee-the other way. Some, believing Bertie's delirious shriek to be the veritable voice of Satan, acted on this first impulse and fled. Notable among them were M. Robert and his mother. That gallant pair raced each other homewards, shrieking with so much vigour that it almost seemed that in that direction they had made up their minds to outdo the plunderer of the fields of honest men. But there were braver spirits abroad that day. Among them was the mayor. Besides, the public eye was upon him, and behind him were the two gendarmes. In France the representative of authority never runs-at least, he never runs away.

It is true that when Bertie sprang with such startling suddenness from right underneath his feet, and gave utterance to that ear-alarming shriek, M. Baudry thought of running. But he only thought; it went no further. He would certainly have denied that he had even allowed himself to think of such an ignominious contingency a moment afterwards.

The creature was running away. That was evident. It would be absurd for the champions of those fields to run away from him, when the rascal had been sensible enough to run away from them. M. Baudry perceived this fact at once.

"After him!" he cried. "I give you my word we shall catch him yet!"

Off went the assembly, helter-skelter, after the delirious boy.

"Forward! forward! We will teach this rogue a lesson! We will teach him to rob the fields of honest men! We will learn the stuff that he is made of-this vagabond!"

Courage revived. They all shouted, and they all ran.

If the mayor was in the habit of giving his word as lightly as he gave it then, it could not have been worth having. It was soon evident that they had about as much chance of catching the fugitive as they had of catching the clouds which wandered above their heads.

M. Baudry was not built for violent exercise. He had probably not run thirty yards in the last thirty years. He was in his sabots, and sabots are not good things for running. Fifty paces in Madame Perchon's buck-wheat field was quite enough for him. He perceived that it is not a proper thing for mayors to run; so he ran no more. Instead of running he sat down to think, and to encourage, of course, his friends.

The gendarmes kept on. It was evidently their duty to keep on. But they were not much fonder of running than the mayor, and a gendarme's boots, when it comes to running, are not much more satisfactory, regarded as aids to progress, than sabots. Especially are gendarmes not built to run across ploughed fields.

In fact the chase was prolonged for almost, if not quite, a hundred yards. Then it ceased. Most of the champions of the fields of honest men sat down upon the fields they championed; those who didn't gasped for breath upon their feet.

The affair was, perhaps, something of a fiasco, but they consoled themselves with the reflection that they would catch the vagabond next time, when they could run a little better and a little further, and he could run a little worse-or a good deal worse, in fact.

But for Bertie the chase was very far from done. He fled, not from things of flesh and blood, but from things of air-the wild imaginings of fever. On and on and on-over fields and hedges, dykes and ditches-on and on and on, until the day waned and the night had come.

And in the night his journey ended. Even delirium would no longer give strength unto his limbs. His style of going changed. Instead of running, like a maddened animal, straight forward, he went reeling, reeling, reeling, staggering from side to side.

Then he staggered down.

He rose no more. It was the end of the journey.

Chapter XXIII
THE LAND OF GOLDEN DREAMS

When he returned to life he was in his mother's arms. There were familiar faces round him, and, as out of a mist, familiar voices sounded in his ear.

He turned in his bed-for it was on a bed he was lying, and no longer on the stony ground-and opened his eyes, waking as from a delicious slumber.

Some one bent over him; some one laid a hand softly on his brow; some one's burning tears fell on his cheek. There was his mother standing by his side.

"My boy! my boy! Thank God for this, my darling boy!"

Then she kissed him; and she wept.

Out of the mist there came another familiar form. It was his father.

"Bertie! at last! Thank God for this, indeed, my son!"

And he, too, stooped and kissed the lad. And the mother rose to her feet, and became encircled in her husband's arms; and they two rejoiced together over the son who was lost and was found.

He had been ill six weeks. Six weeks delirious with fever; six weeks hovering between life and death; six weeks' sorrow; six weeks' pain. That was the end of his journey.

And it would have had another ending had it not been for the providence of God. He would have journeyed into that strange, unknown country, whose name is Death, but that he was found by the roadside, where he had fallen, and by a friend. It would be unwise to say that that friend was not sent to him direct from God.

Among his father's patients was a certain Mr. Yates. Mr. Yates was a county magistrate, a man of position and of wealth. Under God he owed his life to Dr. Bailey's skill. It was to him reference has been made as having given Bertie half a sovereign once upon a time-half a sovereign which, to Bertie's disgust, he had had to divide with his brothers and sisters.

Mr. Yates had known the youngster well. He was a bachelor, and had allowed the boy to run in and out almost as he pleased. On the eve of starting on a tour to Brittany he had heard that the young gentleman had disappeared from school, no one knew why, no one knew whither. There was a pretty to-do when it was known. It was almost the last straw for Mr. Fletcher, that last straw which, according to the proverb, breaks the camel's back.

In his bewilderment-in the general bewilderment, indeed-Dr. Bailey had not hesitated to lay his son's disappearance at Mr. Fletcher's door. He declared that he was alone to blame, that some act of remissness, some act of even positive cruelty must have goaded the lad into taking such a step.

The boy had left no trace behind. The distracted father advertised for him right and left, placed the matter in the hands of the police, seeking for him on every side without finding the slightest clue to tell him if his son were alive or dead.

Matters were in this state when Mr. Yates had left for Brittany. He had been there some days, when, wandering somewhat out of the beaten track, he had chartered a carriage at Morlaix to take him up among those wind-swept slopes which are grandiloquently termed the Montagnes d'Arree, and land him at the little town of Huelgoet. There are one or two things which people go to see at Huelgoet, but the place became memorable to Mr. Yates for what he saw upon the road.

He was about half-way to his destination when he observed, lying among the furze at the roadside, a lad. He might not have noticed him had not the boy been emitting cries of so peculiar a kind that they could scarcely have failed to catch a traveller's ear. Going to see what was the matter, he perceived at once that the lad was delirious with fever.

With some difficulty he persuaded the driver of the vehicle to convey so dubious a passenger. The same difficulty occurred at the Huelgoet hotel before they would let him in. It was only when he had undertaken to recoup them for any losses they might sustain, and had got the lad comfortably in bed, that he discovered that the waif who had found in him such a good Samaritan was none other than Bertie Bailey.

* * * * * *

So soon as they could move him they took him home. And, as he entered the old familiar home, he knew in his heart that this place which he was entering was in fact the Land of Golden Dreams. He had been in search of it afar off, and he had been a native of the country all the time. And there are many natives of that country who throw away the substance to grasp the shadow, not realizing their folly till the thing is done.

* * * * * *

They never found the "captain" nor "Mr. Rosenheim." In due time Bertie told his story, and the doctor thought it so strange an one that he felt in duty bound to communicate with the police. A detective came and heard all that Bertie had to say. He asked a hundred puzzling questions; but, although not always able to answer them to the detective's satisfaction, Bertie stuck to his tale. They took him to point out the house which had contained the "captain's room," but he had been a stranger in the great city, at night, hungry and worn. He had gone blindly where he had been taken, not noticing a single landmark by the way, and now when they asked him to retrace his steps, and lead them where Freddy had led him, he found it impossible to discover the house again.

So it came to pass that the police looked at his story with doubtful eyes. And for that cause-or some other-nothing has been heard of the Countess of Ferndale's jewels unto this day.