Read the book: «Sea-gift», page 16

CHAPTER XXII

I had secured the key from the librarian, and we did not, therefore, fear interruption, as the library of the Society was only open to the public on Saturdays.

As we walked from alcove to alcove selecting books, reading an extract from one, examining the engravings in another, and I realized that we were all alone in the great silent hall, I felt the resistless current of my love more strongly than ever, and determined to reveal it if I could, before we left the library. But the very thought of sitting by her side and telling her to her face that I loved her made a hot flutter rise in my heart that imparted its tremor to my limbs, and I began to think it were best to put off the disclosure a few days yet.

At length we took our seat on one of the sofas, and bent together over a beautifully illustrated copy of that passionate Persian poem – the Gitagovinda.

We opened to a picture of Rhada half concealed in the papyri, gazing on the inconstant Heri as he sports with the laughing shepherdesses. The sad, wounded look spread over the chiselled features told of the jealousy within her heart, and shaded the radiance of Heaven with the blight of Earth’s sorrow.

“Isn’t that face exquisite?” she said, after gazing for some time at it without speaking; “and the hand half raised, holding the broken stem of lotus, how perfect in outline. The whole picture is the loveliest thing I ever saw.”

“You haven’t had the advantage of a mirror recently, then,” I said, tamely.

“That is fulsome and exceedingly stale,” she said, with a smile that softened but did not quite destroy the sarcasm of her tone.

“Indeed, Miss Carrover, you are lovely enough to make Heraclitus cease weeping; but I would not seek your favor with adulation. Your experience as a flirt has doubtless taught you too well how to estimate the compliments of – er (I longed for my horse and spur again, but not having them with me I was forced to its utterance) – lovers.”

“Do you call me a flirt,” she said, closing the book, and setting it up edgewise on her lap, so that she might lock her beautiful fingers over it, “after all the consideration and regard I have shown you? Has anything in my conduct toward you indicated that I was flirting with you?”

“No; I confess with deep gratitude that, so far as I am concerned, you do not yet deserve the name. But I do fear your ridicule and sarcasm, or my bursting heart would tell its love.”

“Poor little heart! do not burst,” she said, patting me with one hand gently over my heart.

Of course I caught the hand and imprinted a very fervent kiss on it; a liberty which she resented by calling “Sir-r-r,” with a great many r’s, and vowing she would not speak to me again while we were in the library. I gazed at her a moment, and then broke out passionately:

“Miss Lillian – may I call you that? – let’s cease trifling. I love you; but before you laugh me to scorn let me tell you how I love you. I have never loved before, can never love again, as I love you now. My life, my soul is wrapped up in you; my whole being is in yours; and existence without your love to possess or to hope for is utterly worthless. No other thought, no other object has been mine since I saw you; and I solemnly vow to you now, I care for, hope for nothing else on earth but your smile and favor. I cannot, dare not believe that you love me now; but give me one ray of hope, one straw to cling to; promise that you will learn to love me in years to come; that after long, patient devotion on my part, and satiety of conquest on yours, you will give me your heart. Dearest Lillian, promise me.”

The sexton of the library had forgotten his broom, and it chanced to be leaning against the sofa arm near her. She quietly handed it to me, and said, with an affected sigh:

“Alas! I have no hope to offer, but there is a broom full of straws for you to cling to.”

I dropped my head into my hands, and moaned:

“Oh heaven! the agony.”

“Really, Mr. Smith, you act your part well. I can only regret that the programme of courtship you have evidently studied is a hackneyed one. Indiscriminate flattery, life and death pledges of devotion and vows of eternal fealty! The addition of a little poetry, about the fountain of your heart being sealed, to keep its waters, etc., would have made it perfect.”

“Miss Carrover,” I said, raising my head from my hands, and looking at her with a countenance so full of despair I saw she knew at last that I was in earnest, “it is enough. Before we drop the subject, though, forever, hear me. As I hope to be judged in eternity, every word I spoke just now was earnest truth. As you value the happiness of a fellow being, do me the justice, at least, to believe this my solemn assertion.”

“Mr. Smith,” she said quickly, her face losing the expression of incredulous derision it had worn, and assuming a seriousness I had never before seen on it, “were you really in earnest?”

“Before my Maker, I was.”

“Can you pardon my unkindness, then,” and she offered her soft little hand. I took it, but did not release it immediately, but sat holding it in mine, and gazing down at the floor. Though so near her, I felt that we were separated by an immense chasm, whose black depths were unfathomable; but now her last words threw a tiny thread of gold across it, and on this slender bridge Hope, like another Blondin, prepared to tread.

“I have been called a flirt,” she continued, to my joyful surprise letting her hand remain in mine, “and perhaps the title is deserved; for I confess that I have constantly sought the conquest of hearts, and I enjoy nothing so much as a long story of love poured out for my mockery – not that I love to cause pain in others, but I have ever found men’s vows insincere, deserving nothing better than scorn. Whenever I have had reason to believe one sincere I have always made the dismissal, if I rejected him, as kind as possible. With you, my dear friend – will you allow me to deal candidly? – I was much pleased, and enjoyed your pleasant vivacity and humor exceedingly; so that I will confess I looked forward to your visits more pleasantly than to almost any one else’s. Thus, without intending it, I have encouraged a love which from the first I knew I could not return, but which I did not suppose was serious. If I esteemed you less I might bid you hope that I might retain you as a suitor; but the very earnestness of your love forbids that I should deceive you. I cannot love you, save as a friend. That is very trite, isn’t it? Still, it expresses my feelings, and I trust that you will believe me when I assure you that I do and ever shall entertain the highest regard for you.”

“Do not say you can not love me, Miss Carrover. Surely a love so devoted as mine will yet win some return.”

She did not reply; but slipping the diamond ring on her third finger down to the tip, and holding it there with her thumb, she held it to me. I looked down on the inside of the gold band and saw, marked in ruby points, as if written in blood, the names Raymond and Lillian.”

“Raymond!” I exclaimed, “who – what is the surname?”

“DeVare!” she whispered softly.

The golden thread snapped in twain, and Hope fell forever into the abyss!

I did not reply, for I knew it would have been folly to attempt to supplant Raymond DeVare, and I would not if I could have done so at a breath.

As neither of us had any further use for the library we closed it and walked home. Nothing special was said; only when I bade her good-bye she said, with the old irresistible look: “You will still visit me?”

I bowed low, and said, “If you wish me to.”

On my way home I made up my mind to one thing, that, however much I might feel depressed, I would not let Ned find it out. He had provoked me enough with his predictions; he should not now have the triumph of saying, “I told you so.”

After tea I took a long stroll with DeVare, and, as the conversation led to it, I told him all. He smiled when I concluded, and said he had been expecting as much. He then, in return for my confidence, told me that they had been engaged since early in the summer. That he and Carrover had gone to Newport, and he had met her there and loved her; that they were betrothed before he left, and that they were to be married the coming June, immediately after his graduation.

“That is,” he continued, “if the meeting we have arranged for in December does not prevent it.”

“Does she know of it?” I asked.

“No; and I would not have her to for worlds.”

“But, Ramie, there will never be a meeting,” I said, cheerily. “Brazon is too cowardly to fight; and if he were not, time would make the affair too trivial to be remembered, especially as it is safest to forget it.”

“Brazon would never have begun,” he said, “had it not been for the advice of others. Of course their purpose is to continue the affair, as they suffer no uneasiness on account of it.”

“Well, Ramie, let us look on the bright side of things. I do not believe that the affair will come off at all, and if it does it will be without danger to yourself.”

DeVare then gave me his personal history, stating that he was an only child; that his father had been dead a great many years; that his mother was perfectly devoted to him, and that this was the first session she had passed without spending most of the time at Chapel Hill or Raleigh, where he could run down to see her often.

“She will not leave New Orleans till the close of November,” he continued, “when we will together go to Richmond to spend my vacation. The thought of the terrible blow to her, if I should fall, is the only thing that makes me shrink somewhat from the meeting.”

CHAPTER XXIII

The thirtieth November came at last, and found DeVare, Ned and myself on the train for Wilmington.

The fall session had closed that afternoon, and we had gone up to Durham’s to take the night train. DeVare was going home with me, and would remain till the 3d December, when we were to go over to South Carolina, that Brazon might prove himself a gentleman by trying to take DeVare’s life.

He and Ellerton were on the same train, in company with Frank, but there was no intercourse between any of us.

We reached Wilmington late the next evening, and were heartily welcomed by every one. It was delightful to be in my dear home again, every one so glad to see me, and all interested in the merest little detail of my experience. Carlotta was far more beautiful than when I had left her, and I thought, if years improve her as months have done, she will be the most superbly beautiful woman the world has ever seen. DeVare was perfectly enraptured with her, and vowed that were his affections free he would lay them at her feet. In fact, everything was made so pleasant to both of us that he declared my home the happiest he had ever known. My spirits were very much depressed. Do what I would I could not shake off a dull, heavy foreboding that seemed to shroud my heart in perpetual gloom. Even when I would forget it for a while, there was the same unrest, the same consciousness of something unpleasant, ever resting on my mind. Whatever were the consequences of the dreaded affair to the others, to myself they could be nothing else but disagreeable. If there were no bloodshed, I would incur father’s displeasure to the last degree. I would be liable to indictment in law, and would, perhaps, be expelled from the University; while if DeVare was killed, – but I could not allow myself to think of such a horror for the slightest moment.

Every day I prayed, with all the faith I could command, that it might not occur, and, if it did, that no blood might be spilled. I would have informed the authorities had I not promised DeVare to keep it secret. All this dread of it arose from the fact that I was only the second. Had I been one of the principals in it the romance of excitement would have kept up my spirits, and the necessity for heroic demeanor would have nerved me into nonchalance. DeVare seemed perfectly cheerful, and scarcely ever gave the subject a thought, but my loss of spirits was so perceptible that father rallied me in regard to it, and mother became really solicitous.

The night of the 2d December came round, and DeVare and I went to our rooms to make preparations for our trip next morning. I had told them down stairs that DeVare had a little matter of business in South Carolina, and that I had agreed to accompany him thither. We had very few preparations to make, as we expected to return on the evening train. As I said this to DeVare, when he suggested that we had best carry a valise, I remember the peculiar smile with which he replied:

“Perhaps we may not return at all, at least together. One of us may be in the baggage car.”

“Oh, Ramie, for the love of Heaven do not speak in that way. If you have any love for me let me take your place to-morrow. I had rather die a thousand deaths than feel the dreadful gloom I do to-night,” and I bowed my face upon the table, while my frame shook with emotion.

“Why, Jack,” said Ramie fondly, laying his hand on my arm, “you unnerve me. What have you to fear?”

“More than you, Ramie! I had a hundred fold rather face death than the remorse I must feel if anything happens to you.”

“Your youth and inexperience shrink from the responsibility of the position; but look on the bright side and hope for the best. Now come, sit here by the fire with me, while I give you some directions about what I want done in case I – . You understand.”

“Don’t mention that horrid possibility, Ramie. I cannot bear it.”

“Yes; but it must be mentioned,” he said, crimping a strip of paper between his thumb and forefinger, while he gazed pensively at the coals flickering their red horoscope deep in the grate. “If I fall,” he at length said, “have my body brought back to town and carried to the hotel; I do not wish to shock the feelings of your kind family by being brought here.”

“It shall go nowhere else,” I replied, impetuously, forgetting that the neuter “it” might grate harshly on his ear.

“Then have a metallic case,” he went on, without noticing my interruption, “and have it expressed to New Orleans, telegraphing Mr. Dixon, our agent, to meet it and make necessary arrangements for interment. I expected my mother here soon, but I wrote her a few days since to remain in New Orleans till she heard from me again. I made my will yesterday, and had it signed and sealed, but there are a few articles of personal property I wish you to dispose of for me. My ring, with Lillian’s and my own likeness in it, together with the box of trinkets and souvenirs you will find in my trunk, please give to her; my watch and chain send to my mother, and this I wish you to keep,” and he placed in my hand a beautiful emerald cross, which he wore as a scarf pin.

He gazed again for some time in the fire, and then looked up and continued:

“And, John, write to mother and explain all the circumstances and reasons of the affair – omitting, of course, the slight connection you had with its beginning; and tell her that I die in the faith and communion of the Church, and in the hope of Heaven. I am speaking thus in case the worst happens. I trust, though, there may be no occasion for your carrying out these instructions. Now complete your arrangements and let’s go to sleep; I want to feel well in the morning.”

He retired to his room, which adjoined mine; and having occasion to go in there a few moments afterwards, I found that he was sleeping as peacefully as if on his mother’s bosom. I could not sleep, but tossed from side to side in a fever of restless apprehension.

About day I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened by father’s tapping at our door and telling us it was nearly train time. I found DeVare already up and dressed, and I rose, and hurriedly, shiveringly, slipped on my clothes and went down with him to the dining room, where mother had prepared an early breakfast for us.

“What time will you return?” asked father, as we got into the carriage.

“Don’t look for us until you see us,” I said, slamming the carriage door, and concealing beneath my shawl my case of Derringers, which Ellerton had agreed to use.

A thought of coming back alone flitted like a raven of despair across my mind, but I shook it off and assumed cheerfulness.

As we entered the boat I noticed Ellerton and Brazon on the forward deck, smoking with affected sang froid. We sat down near the wheel house, and watched the paddles as they churned the bluish-green water into white foam, and rocked the little skiffs passing near, with refluent waves. Across the river a short dash on the cars took us over the line and into the little town of C – .

Here we hired hacks and drove out to the place Ellerton and I had agreed on – a picturesque spot, and one which Frank and I had visited when we were boys. It was a beautiful grass plat, of half an acre, lying between two hills, and bordered with a little gurgling branch.

We had hardly gotten out and dismissed the driver for half an hour, when the other carriage drove up, and Brazon and Ellerton got out, and with them a surgeon from the town.

We bowed to each other, and Ellerton and I stepped forward to measure the ground. We divided the sun and shade as equally as possible between them, Ellerton examined and loaded the pistols, and we arranged to place our men. Brazon was smoking with apparent indifference, but that it was assumed could be seen from the nervous, trembling way he would take his cigar from his mouth, and from the frequent yawns he made. DeVare was leaning against a tree in an abstracted manner, and started when I touched his arm.

“All is ready, Ramie,” I said, conducting him to the spot assigned him. “Here, take this pistol, be cool and aim well.”

He only looked at me and smiled, but said nothing. I told Ellerton he must give the word to fire, as I dared not, and I withdrew a short distance, and stood with uncovered head, breathing a prayer which I felt was a mockery.

Ellerton raised his handkerchief while I quivered with suspense; his voice rang out loud and clear:

“Ready! aim! fire! – one, two, three!”

At the word “one” Brazon fired, his ball cutting the foliage a yard over DeVare’s head, while the echoes rolled in solemn groans through the woods around.

After the word “three” Ramie raised his pistol and fired into the air, the smoke curling gracefully up towards Heaven, as if from the altar of a peace offering.

We each ran to our principals.

“Ramie! Ramie!” I exclaimed, “this will never do; why on earth did you not fire at him? I am afraid now he will want another shot, as he sees your harmless intentions. A shot pretty close would have frightened him off.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said quietly; “but then I might have killed him, and that is not my object.”

Ellerton now approached, and, bowing, said:

“My principal claims another shot, as Mr. DeVare promised him satisfaction.”

“He can get it,” said DeVare, before I could interpose.

“He also begs,” said Ellerton, addressing DeVare, “that you will do him the honor to fire at him, as he dislikes to aim at one who preserves your peaceful attitude.”

“I shall do as I think best,” replied DeVare, with so much dignity that Ellerton withdrew in some confusion.

Again were the pistols loaded and placed in their hands, and again rang out those deadly words, “Fire! – one, two, three!”

Brazon, who had become very nervous and excited, fired while the word “one” was yet on Ellerton’s lips. DeVare gave a slight start, raised his pistol and aimed upward, then lowered his hand without firing, deliberately uncocked his weapon and dropped it beside him, then, closing his eyes with a sudden tightness, fell in a doubled-up heap to the ground. The heavy manner in which he fell, without regard to easing himself down, told me all.

I ran to him, and raised his head upon my arm; his eyes were still closed, and his face was pale as marble. He was drawing his breath in short gasps, at long intervals, while the blood was oozing from his lips, and trickling in little red streams down his chin and throat. The ball had entered below the right armpit, and ranged straight across toward the heart, and I supposed that internal hemorrhage caused the flow of blood from the mouth.

“Ramie! Ramie!” I called frantically, “are you hurt much? Speak to me, Ramie.”

His eyes opened feebly on mine, and with considerable effort he whispered:

“I am almost gone, Jack.”

The surgeon now approached with his case of instruments, and tearing open DeVare’s coat, vest and shirt, examined the wound. A round spot, closed up with blood and torn flesh, showed where the death messenger had entered, and rose and fell with every labored breath. He contracted his brow as if in pain as the surgeon ran his probing wire in, but otherwise remained quiet and passive. The surgeon, as he drew his wire out and wiped it, put his mouth close to my ear and whispered:

“He cannot possibly live more than ten minutes. If he wishes to speak, tell him to cough up the blood from his throat and take a swallow of this,” handing me a small vial that contained some powerful stimulant, “the ball has severed one of the large arteries directly at the heart, and he must soon bleed to death.”

I put my mouth close to DeVare’s ear and said:

“Ramie, do you wish to speak?”

He opened his eyes languidly, and with a motion of his brow signified yes. I wiped his lips and put the vial to his mouth. He swallowed a little of the liquid, which seemed to revive him for a moment. He tightened his clasp on my hand and said feebly:

“It is as I expected, John. Tell mother – ” but the flow of blood choked his utterance again. I again put the vial to his lips, but he turned his head away from it, and in a whisper said:

“No, ‘tis useless. Oh, my lonely mother, forgive me! Dear Christ have mercy – ” A shuddering clasp of the white fingers locked in mine, a paler hue on the pallid face, and only Raymond DeVare’s body lay in my arms. The great weight of impending evil I had so much dreaded had crushed down upon me, and I was almost senseless beneath the blow. I could not realize the fact, but sat in stupid wonderment, gazing at the lifeless features. Ramie, my fond, true friend, dead! So full of life and activity but a moment ago; now dead! Dead for my sake; dead because I was insulted; dead for a hasty word; dead on the warrant of cowardly society, that would now shrink from the poor fool who killed him at its behest. Dead! dead! DEAD!

I leaned my cheek down on the forehead, already growing cold, and murmured, weeping like a woman:

“No, no, Ramie, you are not dead? Speak to me, Ramie, one word, open your eyes; one more look, Ramie!

The surgeon touched my arm and said:

“The carriages have returned, as you ordered; we had better get the body in and drive back to C – , where you can telegraph to Wilmington for a case, and carry him home to-morrow.”

I rose from the ground, laying Ramie’s head gently on my handkerchief, and calling the coachman we lifted him up and laid him as well as we could across the seats of the carriage.

Ellerton and Brazon, who had been standing some distance off, smoking and talking carelessly, got into the other carriage, and, bowing as they passed us, drove rapidly on to the station. The doctor kindly asked, as we drove slowly on, what I intended to do.

“I don’t know,” I replied, vacantly.

“If you will allow me to suggest a plan, I would say go to our little hotel here, get a room for to-night, and telegraph immediately for a metallic case, which will, perhaps, come out on the evening train. The undertaker will seal it up for you, and you can carry it in to-morrow.”

I thanked him for his kind advice, but told him that as I knew the conductors on the road I could take the body into the mail car with me till we got to Wilmington. I lowered the carriage curtains, and ordered the driver to go as close as possible to the track at the station and wait for the train. It was a very short time before the train came in, and I immediately sought out the conductor, who had known me since I was a boy, my father being one of the directors of the road. I told him my friend DeVare had been killed in a duel, and asked permission to carry the body in the mail car. He readily accorded it, and had the carriage driven close up to the door. But with all our precaution, quite a crowd gathered around as we lifted poor Ramie from the carriage and laid him on some cushions in the car. Some one had heard me call his name to the conductor, and it passed from mouth to mouth that “a young man named DeVare was killed this morning near here in a duel, and they are carrying him home.”

The passengers in the coaches got hold of it, and I was very much annoyed by the impertinent yet natural curiosity with which one after another came to the door and looked at myself and the corpse. At last the whistle sounded, the train got under way, and I was free from interruptions. I leaned my face against a pile of mail bags, and gave way to miserable reflection. The present was too horrible to dwell on, and the future nothing but remorse and gloom. Remorse that I had not prevented the fatal affair at all hazards. Remorse that I had not conquered pride and satisfied Brazon with my own apologies and explanation; gloom that my prospects were blighted, father deceived, and angered into dislike of me, mother surprised and grieved beyond expression, and Carlotta horrified into repelling me; my career at the University, which I had resolved, after Lillian had discarded me, to make brilliant, now cut short in disgrace, and my hitherto exuberant spirits damped by an ever vivid remembrance of the terrible tragedy, in which I had taken so large a part. Then I thought of the shock I would give them at home as I drove up to the door with DeVare’s dead body, and as I fancied the faces of horror and words of reproach, I shrank from the ordeal. My bitter reflections were interrupted by a hand laid on my shoulder. I looked up and found the conductor standing by me.

“There is a lady in the rear coach wishes to speak with you,” he said, counting over some tickets he took from his pocket.

“Who is it?” I asked, looking at him vacantly.

“Don’t know her. Perhaps she’s some kin to you. She’s a fine looking old lady, a little gray, sitting two seats from the back of the coach.”

I begged that my friend might be unmolested, and made my way through the coaches to the last one. A lady was sitting two seats from the back, and the instant my eyes fell upon her I had to grasp the arm of a seat for support. The same noble features that were now lying so rigid in the car ahead; the same dark eye that I had so recently closed with a sorrowing hand! I knew in a moment it was his mother. I strengthened myself as well as I was able, and approaching her, bowed and said:

“Did you wish to see me, madam?”

She looked at me earnestly, as she replied:

“Pardon me, sir, but are you the gentleman whose friend has just been killed?”

“I am, madam.”

“I heard a gentleman, a few seats from me, say the unfortunate man’s name was DeVare. As that is my own name, and I have a dear boy who has been at college in North Carolina, I felt a restless anxiety to know more, and ventured to intrude on your grief.”

I made no reply, and she continued:

“It was a silly fear in me, I’m sure. It could not have been Raymond, for he would have written to me.”

I still said nothing, for the simple reason I did not know what to say, and, after a pause, she asked:

“What was your friend’s given name, sir?”

Driven to a corner by her question, I made a stammering attempt to evade.

“It could not have been your son, madam,” I said, with evident confusion; “my friend’s name was Lionel.”

Ramie’s full name was Lionel Raymond, but he always signed his name simply as Raymond.

Her piercing gaze read my flimsy deception in a moment, and a quick pallor ran over her face, as if her heart had ceased beating for a while.

“My son’s name was also Lionel. Surely, sir, you would not trifle with my feelings? I must go into the front car and satisfy myself,” she said, rising from her seat.

“Madam,” I said, putting out my hand to detain her, “I implore you to be seated. The train will reach Wilmington in a few moments, and you can then see for yourself. Heaven forbid that it should be your son!”

At this moment the conductor approached, gathering up the tickets for the last station. She called him to her and said, with an air of command it was impossible to resist:

“I wish to go to the front car and look at the corpse there. You will go with me, sir?”

“I should advise you, ma’am, to sit still,” said the conductor, snipping a hole in the last ticket he had taken; “it’s not a pleasant sight for a lady, and we’ll soon get to Wilmington any how.”

“I only wished your aid in crossing the platforms, but I will go alone,” she said firmly, passing us both and walking rapidly up the aisle.

I followed mechanically, feeling that nothing could add to the intensity of my wretchedness. I assisted her from car to car, till, passing through heaps of mail bags, we reached the end of the coach where lay the still form of Ramie, wrapped in my travelling shawl. She kneeled by its side, and, turning back the shawl, gazed for a moment on the pallid face, and then, with a shriek that often now rings in my ears, fell forward insensible on the breast of her dead child. The mail agent came forward, and we tried all the usual restoratives without the slightest effect. No sign of returning animation responded to our efforts, and, making the best couch we could, we were about to lay her by Ramie’s side when the whistle sounded for Wilmington, and the train drew up close to the boat that was to take us over the river. The conductor and the captain of the boat aided me so kindly that the body of Ramie and his unconscious mother were conveyed on board without attracting very much attention. A carriage on the other side took us to the hotel, where I had concluded it was best to go since Mrs. DeVare had become unconscious. I ordered rooms, despatched one messenger for a physician and another for father; then, without waiting for them to come, I left the hotel and walked rapidly homeward, for I began to experience very singular sensations in mind and body – a tingling numbness, that deadened my extremities; and alternations of sudden forgetfulness of all that had occurred, and vivid remembrance of it. I reached our door, and pushing it open, found Carlotta in the hall. She started at my haggard face, and exclaimed: