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Ramji Lal

Algebra 2
Linear Algebra, Galois Theory,
Representation Theory,
Group Extensions and Schur Multiplier

123
Ramji Lal
Harish Chandra Research Institute (HRI)
Allahabad, Uttar Pradesh
India

ISSN 2363-6149 ISSN 2363-6157 (electronic)

Infosys Science Foundation Series
ISSN 2364-4036 ISSN 2364-4044 (electronic)
Infosys Science Foundation Series in Mathematical Sciences
ISBN 978-981-10-4255-3 ISBN 978-981-10-4256-0 (eBook)
DOI 10.1007/978-981-10-4256-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017935547

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2017

This Springer imprint is published by Springer Nature

The registered company is Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd.
The registered company address is:
152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore
 Preface

Algebra has played a central and decisive role in all branches of mathematics and,
in turn, in all branches of science and engineering. It is not possible for a lecturer to
cover, physically in a classroom, the amount of algebra which a graduate student
(irrespective of the branch of science, engineering, or mathematics in which he
prefers to specialize) needs to master. In addition, there are a variety of students in a
class. Some of them grasp the material very fast and do not need much of assis-
tance. At the same time, there are serious students who can do equally well by
putting a little more effort. They need some more illustrations and also more
exercises to develop their skill and confidence in the subject by solving problems on
their own. Again, it is not possible for a lecturer to do sufficiently many illustrations
and exercises in the classroom for the aforesaid purpose. This is one of the con-
siderations which prompted me to write a series of three volumes on the subject
starting from the undergraduate level to the advance postgraduate level. Each
volume is sufficiently rich with illustrations and examples together with numerous
exercises. These volumes also cater for the need of the talented students with
difficult, challenging, and motivating exercises which were responsible for the
further developments in mathematics. Occasionally, the exercises demonstrating the
applications in different disciplines are also included. The books may also act as a
guide to teachers giving the courses. The researchers working in the field may also
find it useful.
The first volume consists of 11 chapters, which starts with language of mathe-
matics (logic and set theory) and centers around the introduction to basic algebraic
structures, viz., groups, rings, polynomial rings, and fields together with funda-
mentals in arithmetic. This volume serves as a basic text for the first-year course in
algebra at the undergraduate level. Since this is the first introduction to the
abstract-algebraic structures, we proceed rather leisurely in this volume as com-
pared with the other volumes.
The present (second) volume contains 10 chapters which includes the funda-
mentals of linear algebra, structure theory of fields and the Galois theory, repre-
sentation theory of groups, and the theory of group extensions. It is needless to say
that linear algebra is the most applicable branch of mathematics, and it is essential
for students of any discipline to develop expertise in the same. As such, linear
algebra is an integral part of the syllabus at the undergraduate level. Indeed, a very
significant and essential part (Chaps. 1–5) of linear algebra covered in this volume
does not require any background material from Volume 1 of the book except some
amount of set theory. General linear algebra over rings, Galois theory, represen-
tation theory of groups, and the theory of group extensions follow linear algebra,
and indeed these are parts of the syllabus for the second- and the third-year students
of most of the universities. As such, this volume together with the first volume may
serve as a basic text for the first-, second-, and third-year courses in algebra.
The third volume of the book contains 10 chapters, and it can act as a text for
graduate and advance graduate students specializing in mathematics. This includes
commutative algebra, basics in algebraic geometry, semi-simple Lie algebras,
advance representation theory, and Chevalley groups. The table of contents gives an
idea of the subject matter covered in the book.
There is no prerequisite essential for the book except, occasionally, in some
illustrations and exercises, some amount of calculus, geometry, or topology may be
needed. An attempt to follow the logical ordering has been made throughout
the book.
My teacher (Late) Prof. B.L. Sharma, my colleague at the University of
Allahabad, my friend Dr. H.S. Tripathi, my students Prof. R.P. Shukla, Prof.
Shivdatt, Dr. Brajesh Kumar Sharma, Mr. Swapnil Srivastava, Dr. Akhilesh Yadav,
Dr. Vivek Jain, Dr. Vipul Kakkar, and above all, the mathematics students of the
University of Allahabad had always been the motivating force for me to write a
book. Without their continuous insistence, it would have not come in the present
form. I wish to express my warmest thanks to all of them.
Harish-Chandra Research Institute (HRI), Allahabad, has always been a great
source for me to learn more and more mathematics. I wish to express my deep sense
of appreciation and thanks to HRI for providing me all infrastructural facilities to
write these volumes.
Last but not least, I wish to express my thanks to my wife Veena Srivastava who
had always been helpful in this endeavor.
In spite of all care, some mistakes and misprints might have crept in and escaped
my attention. I shall be grateful to any such attention. Criticisms and suggestions for
the improvement of the book will be appreciated and gratefully acknowledged.

Allahabad, India Ramji Lal

April 2017
 Contents

1 Vector Spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.1 Concept of a Field . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.2 Concept of a Vector Space (Linear Space) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
1.3 Subspaces. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
1.4 Basis and Dimension . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
1.5 Direct Sum of Vector Spaces, Quotient of a Vector Space . . . . 23
2 Matrices and Linear Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.1 Matrices and Their Algebra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.2 Types of Matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
2.3 System of Linear Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
2.4 Gauss Elimination, Elementary Operations, Rank,
and Nullity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
2.5 LU Factorization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
2.6 Equivalence of Matrices, Normal Form . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
2.7 Congruent Reduction of Symmetric Matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
3 Linear Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3.1 Definition and Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3.2 Isomorphism Theorems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
3.3 Space of Linear Transformations, Dual Spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
3.4 Rank and Nullity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
3.5 Matrix Representations of Linear Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . 85
3.6 Effect of Change of Bases on Matrix Representation . . . . . . . . . 88
4 Inner Product Spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
4.1 Definition, Examples, and Basic Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
4.2 Gram–Schmidt Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
4.3 Orthogonal Projection, Shortest Distance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
4.4 Isometries and Rigid Motions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
5 Determinants and Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
5.1 Determinant of a Matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
5.2 Permutations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
5.3 Alternating Forms, Determinant of an Endomorphism . . . . . . . . 139
5.4 Invariant Subspaces, Eigenvalues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
5.5 Spectral Theorem, and Orthogonal Reduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
5.6 Bilinear and Quadratic Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
6 Canonical Forms, Jordan and Rational Forms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
6.1 Concept of a Module over a Ring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
6.2 Modules over P.I.D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
6.3 Rational and Jordan Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
7 General Linear Algebra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
7.1 Noetherian Rings and Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
7.2 Free, Projective, and Injective Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
7.3 Tensor Product and Exterior Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250
7.4 Lower K-theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
8 Field Theory, Galois Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
8.1 Field Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
8.2 Galois Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
8.3 Splitting Field, Normal Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
8.4 Separable Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
8.5 Fundamental Theorem of Galois Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
8.6 Cyclotomic Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
8.7 Geometric Constructions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
8.8 Galois Theory of Equation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
9 Representation Theory of Finite Groups . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
9.1 Semi-simple Rings and Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
9.2 Representations and Group Algebras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
9.3 Characters, Orthogonality Relations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
9.4 Induced Representations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
10 Group Extensions and Schur Multiplier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
10.1 Schreier Group Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368
10.2 Obstructions and Extensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391
10.3 Central Extensions, Schur Multiplier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 398
10.4 Lower K-Theory Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 418
Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
 Notation Algebra 1

h ai Cyclic subgroup generated by a, p. 122

a/b a divides b, p. 57
a*b a is an associate of b, p. 57
At The transpose of a matrix A, p. 200
AH The hermitian conjugate of a matrix A, p. 215
Aut(G) The automorphism group of G, p. 105
An The alternating group of degree n, p. 175
Bðn; RÞ Borel subgroup, p. 187
CG ðH Þ The centralizer of H in G, p. 159
C The field of complex numbers, p. 78
Dn The dihedral group of order 2n, p. 90
det Determinant map, p. 191
End(G) Semigroup of endomorphisms of G, p. 105
f(A) Image of A under the map f, p. 34
f −1(B) Inverse image of B under the map f, p. 34
f |Y Restriction of the map f to Y, p. 30
Eij‚ Transvections, p. 200
Fit(G) Fitting subgroup, p. 353
g.c.d. Greatest common divisor, p. 58
g.l.b. Greatest lower bound, or inf, p. 40
G=l HðG=r HÞ The set of left(right) cosets of G mod H, p. 135
G/H The quotient group of G modulo H, p. 151
½G : H  The index of H in G, p. 135
jGj Order of G, p. 331
G0 ¼ ½G; G Commutator subgroup of G, p. 403
Gn nth term of the derived series of G, p. 345
GLðn; RÞ General linear group, p. 186
IX Identity map on X, p. 30
iY Inclusion map from Y, p. 30
Inn(G) The group of inner automorphisms, p. 407
ker f The kernel of the map f, p. 35
Ln ðGÞ nth term of the lower central series of G, p. 281
l.c.m. Least common multiple, p. 58
l.u.b. Least upper bound, or sup, p. 40
Mn(R) The ring of n  n matrices with entries in R, p. 350
N Natural number system, p. 21
NG ðH Þ Normalizer of H in G, p. 159
O(n) Orthogonal group, p. 197
O(1, n) Lorentz orthogonal group, p. 201
PSO(1, n) Positive special Lorentz orthogonal group, p. 201
Q The field of rational numbers, p. 74
Q8 The quaternion group, p. 88
R The field of real numbers, p. 75
R(G) Radical of G, p. 346
Sn Symmetric group of degree n, p. 88
Sym(X) Symmetric group on X, p. 88
S3 The group of unit quaternions, p. 92
h Si Subgroup generated by a subset S, p. 116
SLðn; RÞ Special linear group, p. 196
SO(n) Special orthogonal group, p. 197
SO(1, n) Special Lorentz orthogonal group, p. 201
SPð2n; RÞ Symplectic group, p. 202
SU(n) Special unitary group, p. 202
U(n) Unitary group, p. 202
Um Group of prime residue classes modulo m, p. 100
V4 Kleins four group, p. 102
X/R The quotient set of X modulo R, p. 36
Rx Equivalence class modulo R determined by x, p. 27
X+ Successor of X, p. 20
XY The set of maps from Y to X, p. 34
 Proper subset, p. 14
}ðXÞ
Qn Power set of X, p. 19
k¼1 Gk Direct product of groups Gk ; 1  k  n, p. 142
/ Normal subgroup, p. 147
// Subnormal subgroup, p. 332
Z(G) Center of G, p. 108
Zm The ring of residue classes modulo m, p. 256
p(n) The number of partition of n, p. 172
HK Semidirect product of H with K, p. 204
pffiffiffi
A Radical of an ideal A, p. 286
R(G) Semigroup ring of a ring R over a semigroup G, p. 238
R[X] Polynomial ring over the ring R in one variable, p. 240
R½X1 ; X2 ;    ; Xn  Polynomial ring in several variables, p. 247
„ The Mobius function, p. 256

 Sum of divisor function, p. 256
a Legendre symbol, p. 280
p
Stab(G, X) Stabilizer of an action of G on X, p. 295
Gx Isotropy subgroup of an action of G at x, p. 295
XG Fixed point set of an action of G on X, p. 296
Zn(G) nth term of the upper central series of G, p. 351
ΦðGÞ The Frattini subgroup of G, p. 355
 Notation Algebra 2

B2 ðK; HÞ Group of 2 co-boundaries with given , p. 385

C(A) Column space of A, p. 42
Ch(G, K) Set of characters from G to K, p. 278
Ch(G) Character ring of G, p. 350
dim(V) Dimension of V, p. 18
EXT Category of Schreier group extensions, p. 368
E(H, K) The set of equivalence classes of extensions of H by K, p. 376
E1 ] E2 Baer sum of extensions, p. 388
EXT ˆ ðH; KÞ Set of equivalence classes of extensions associated to abstract
kernel ˆ, p. 384
E(V) Exterior algebra of V, p. 257
FACS Category of factor systems, p. 375
F(X) The fixed field of a set of automorphism of a field, p. 275
G(L/K) The Galois group of the field extension L of K, p. 275
G^G Non-abelian exterior square of a group G, p. 413

K Algebraic closure of K, p. 289
H2 ðK; HÞ Second cohomology with given , p. 385
K0 ð RÞ Grothendieck group of the ring R, p. 257
K1 ð RÞ Whitehead group of the ring R, p. 260
KSL Separable closure of K in L, p. 295
L/K Field extension L of K, p. 262
mT ð X Þ Minimum polynomial of linear transformation T, p. 212
minK ðfi ÞðXÞ Minimum polynomial of fi over the field K, p. 265
M(V) Group of rigid motion on V, p. 122
M R N Tensor product of R-modules M and N, p. 250
NL=K Norm map from L to K, p. 279
N(A) Null space of A, p. 41
ObsðˆÞ Obstruction of the abstract kernel ˆ, p. 393
R(A) Row space of A, p. 42
St(R) Steinberg group, p. 422
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Symr ðVÞ rth symmetric power of V, p. 345
T L=K Trace map from L to K, p. 314
T(V) Tensor algebra of V, p. 257
TS Semi-simple part of T, p. 219
Tn Nilpotent part of T, p. 220
Z 2 ðK; HÞ Group of 2 co-cycles with given , p. 385
Vr
V rth exterior power of V, p. 255
ΨE Abstract kernel associated to the extension E, p. 377
‰ · Direct sum of representations ‰ and ·, p. 345
‰· Tensor product of representations ‰ and ·, p. 345
Symr ‰ rth symmetric power of the representation ‰, p. 345
SF(L/K)
Vr Set of all intermediary fields of L/K, p. 275
‰ rth exterior power of the representation ‰, p. 345
´‰ Character afforded by the representation ‰, p. 350
`n ðXÞ nth cyclotomic polynomial, p. 311
`A ðXÞ Characteristic polynomial of A, p. 149
Chapter 1
Vector Spaces

This chapter is devoted to the structure theory of vector spaces over arbitrary fields.
In essence, a vector space is a structure in which we can perform all basic operations
of vector algebra, can talk of lines, planes, and linear equations. The basic motivating
examples on which we shall dwell are the Euclidean 3-space R3 over R in which
we live, the Minkowski Space R4 of events (in which the first three coordinates
represent the place and the fourth coordinate represents the time of the occurrence
of the event), and also the space of matrices.

1.1 Concept of a Field

Rings and fields have been introduced and studied in Algebra 1. However, to make the
linear algebra part (Chaps. 1–5) of this volume independent of Algebra 1, we recall,
quickly, the concept of a field and its basic properties. Field is an algebraic structure
in which we can perform all arithmetical operations, viz., addition, subtraction, mul-
tiplication, and division by nonzero members. The basic motivating examples are the
structure Q of rational numbers, the structure R of real numbers, and the structure
C of complex numbers with usual operations. The precise definition of a field is as
follows:
Definition 1.1.1 A Field is a triple (F, +, ·), where F is a set, + and · are two
internal binary operations, called the addition and the multiplication on F, such that
the following hold:
1. (F, +) is an abelian Group in the following sense:
(i) The operation + is associative in the sense that
(a + b) + c = a + (b + c) for all a, b, c ∈ F.
(ii) The operation + is commutative in the sense that
(a + b) = (b + a) for all a, b ∈ F.
2 1 Vector Spaces

(iii) There is a unique element 0 ∈ F, called the zero of F, such that

a + 0 = a = 0 + a for all a ∈ F.
(iv) For all a ∈ F, there is a unique element −a ∈ F, called the negative of a,
such that
a + (−a) = 0 = −a + a.
2. (i) The operation · is associative in the sense that
(a · b) · c = a · (b · c) for all a, b, c ∈ F.
(ii) The operation · is commutative in the sense that
(a · b) = (b · a) for all a, b ∈ F.
3. The operation · distributes over + in the sense that
(i) a · (b + c) = a · b + a · c, and
(ii) (a + b) · c = a · c + b · c for all a, b, c ∈ F.
4. (i) There is a unique element 1 ∈ F − {0}, called the one of F, such that
1 · a = a = a · 1 for all a ∈ F.
(ii) For all a ∈ F − {0}, there is a unique element a−1 ∈ F, called the multiplicative
inverse of a, such that
a · a−1 = 1 = a−1 · a.
Before having some examples, let us observe some simple facts:
Proposition 1.1.2 Let (F, +, ·) be a field.
(i) The cancellation law holds for the addition + in F in the sense that (a + b =
a + c) implies b = c. In turn, (b + a = c + a) implies b = c.
(ii) a · 0 = 0 = 0 · a for all a ∈ F.
(iii) a · (−b) = −(a · b) = (−a) · b for all a, b ∈ F.
(iv) The restricted cancellation for the multiplication in F holds in the sense that
(a = 0 and a · b = a · c) implies b = c. In turn, (a = 0 and b · a = c ·
a) implies b = c.
(v) (a · b = 0) implies that (a = 0 or b = 0).

Proof (i) Suppose that a + b = a + c. Then b = 0 + b = (−a + a) + b =

−a + (a + b) = −a + (a + c) = (−a + a) + c = 0 + c = c.
(ii) 0 + a · 0 = a · 0 = a · (0 + 0) = a · 0 + a · 0. Using the cancellation for +,
we get that 0 = a · 0. Similarly, 0 = 0 · a.
(iii) 0 = a · 0 = a · (b + (−b)) = a · b + a · (−b). It follows that a · (−b) =
−(a · b). Similarly, the other part follows.
(iv) Suppose that a = 0 and a · b = a · c. Then b = 1 · b = (a−1 · a) · b =
a−1 · (a · b) = a−1 · (a · c) = (a−1 · a) · c = 1 · c = c. Similarly, the other part
follows.
(v) Suppose that (a · b = 0). If a = 0, there is nothing to do. Suppose that a = 0.
Then a · b = 0 = a · 0. From (iv), it follows that b = 0. 

Integral Multiples and the Integral Powers of Elements of a Field

Let a ∈ F. For each natural number n, we define the multiple na inductively as fol-
lows: Define 1a = a. Assuming that na is defined, define (n + 1)a = na + a.
1.1 Concept of a Field 3

Thus, for a natural number n, na = a + a +· · · + a. We define 0a = 0. Further,

ntimes
if m = −n is a negative integer, then we define ma = n(−a). Thus, for a negative
integer m = −n, ma = −a + (−a) + · · · + (−a). This defines the integral multi-
  
ntimes
ple na for each integer n. Similarly, we define all integral powers of a nonzero element
a of F as follows: Define a1 = a. Assuming that an has already been defined, define
an+1 = an · a. This defines all positive integral powers of a. Define a0 = 1, and
for negative integer n = −m, define an = (a−1 )m . The following law of exponents
follow immediately by the induction.
(i) (n + m)a = na + ma for all n, m ∈ Z.
(ii) (nm)a = n(ma) for all n, m ∈ Z.
(iii) an+m = an · am for all a ∈ F − {0}, and n, m ∈ Z.
(iv) anm = (an )m for all a ∈ F − {0}, and n, m ∈ Z.
Examples of Fields
Example 1.1.3 The rational number system Q, the real number system R, and the
complex number system C with usual addition and multiplications are basic examples
of a field.
√ √
Example 1.1.4 Consider F = Q( 2) = {a + b 2 | a, b ∈ Q}. √ The addition and
multiplication
√ in R induce the corresponding operations in Q( 2). We claim that
Q( 2) is a field with respect to the induced operations. All the defining properties of
a field are consequences of the corresponding√properties in R except, perhaps, 4(ii)
which we verify. Let a, b ∈ Q such that a + b 2 = 0. We claim that a2 − 2b2 = 0.
Suppose not. Then a2 − 2b2 = 0. In turn,√b = 0 (and so also a = 0), otherwise,
( ab )2 = 2, a contradiction to the fact that 2 is not a rational number. Thus, then
√
−b
√ √
a+b 2
1√
= a 2 −2b2 = a2 −2b2 + a2 −2b2
a−b 2 a
2 is in Q( 2).

Remark 1.1.5 There is nothing special about 2 in the above example, indeed, we can
take any prime, or for that matter any rational number in place of 2 which is not a
square of a rational number.

So far all the examples of fields are infinite. Now, we give an example of a finite
field.
Let p be a positive prime integer. Consider the set Zp = {1, 2, . . . , p − 1} of
residue classes modulo a prime p. Clearly, a = r, where r is the remainder obtained
when a is divided by p. The usual addition ⊕ modulo p, and the multiplication 
modulo p are given by
i ⊕ j = i + j, i, j ∈ Z,

and
i  j = i · j, i, j ∈ Z
4 1 Vector Spaces

For example, in Z11 , 6 ⊕ 7 = 13 = 2. Similarly, the product 6  7 = 42 = 9.

We have the following proposition.
Proposition 1.1.6 For any prime p, the triple (Zp , ⊕, ) introduced above is a field
containing p elements.

Proof Clearly, 1 is the identity with respect to . We verify only the postulate 4(ii)
in the definition of a field. The rest of the postulates are almost evident, and can be
verified easily. In fact, we give an algorithm (using Euclidean Algorithm) to find the
multiplicative inverse of a nonzero element i ∈ Zp . Let i ∈ Zp − {0}. Then p does
not divide i. Since p is prime, the greatest common divisor of i and p is 1. Using the
Euclidean algorithm, we can find integers b and c such that

1 = i · b + p · c.

Thus, 1 = i · b = i  b. It follows that b is the inverse of i with respect to . 

The above proof is algorithmic and gives an algorithm to find the multiplicative
inverse of nonzero elements in Zp .
Definition 1.1.7 Let (F, +, ·) be a field. A subset L of F is called a subfield of F
if the following hold:
(i) 0 ∈ L.
(ii) If a, b ∈ L, then a + b ∈ L and a · b ∈ L.
(iii) 1 ∈ L.
(iv) For all a ∈ L, −a ∈ L.
(v) For all a ∈ L − {0}, a−1 ∈ L.
Thus, a subfield L of a field F is also a field at its own right with respect to the
induced operations. The field F is a subfield of itself. This subfield is called the
improper subfield of F. Other √ subfields are called proper subfields. The set Q of
rational numbers, the set Q( 2) described in Example 1.1.4, are proper subfields of
the field R of real numbers. The field R of real numbers is a subfield of the field C
of complex numbers.
Proposition 1.1.8 The field Q of rational numbers, and the field Zp have no proper
subfields.

Proof We first show that Q has no proper subfields. Let L be a subfield of Q. Then
by the Definition 1.1.7(iii), 1 ∈ L. Again, by (ii), n = 1 + 1 +· · · + 1 belongs to
n
L for all natural numbers n. Thus, by (iv), all integers are in L. By (v), n1 ∈ L for
all nonzero integers n. By (ii), mn ∈ L for all integers m, n; n = 0. This shows that
L = Q.
1.1 Concept of a Field 5

Next, let L be a subfield of Zp . Then by the Definition 1.1.7(iii), 1 ∈ L. By (ii),

i = 1 ⊕ 1 ⊕  · · · ⊕ 1 belongs to L for all i ∈ Zp . This shows that L = Zp . 
i

We shall see that, essentially, these are the only fields which have no proper
subfields. Such fields are called prime fields.
Homomorphisms and Isomorphisms Between Fields
Definition 1.1.9 Let F1 and F2 be fields. A map f from F1 to F2 is called a
fieldhomomorphism if the following conditions hold:
(i) f (a + b) = f (a) + f (b) for all a, b ∈ F1 (note that + in the LHS is the
addition of F1 , and that in RHS is the addition of F2 ).
(ii) f (a · b) = f (a) · f (b) for all a, b ∈ F1 (again · in the LHS is the multiplication
of F1 , and that in RHS is the multiplication of F2 ).
(iii) f (1) = 1, where 1 in the LHS denotes the multiplicative identity of F1 , and 1
in RHS denotes the multiplicative identity of F2 .
A bijective homomorphism is called an isomorphism. A field F1 is said to be
isomorphic a field F2 if there is an isomorphism from F1 to F2 .
We do not distinguish isomorphic fields.
Proposition 1.1.10 Let f be a homomorphism from a field F1 to a field F2 . Then,
the following hold.
(i) f (0) = 0, where 0 in the LHS is the zero of F1 , and 0 in the RHS is the zero of
F2 .
(ii) f (−a) = −f (a) for all a ∈ F1 .
(iii) f (na) = nf (a) for all a ∈ F1 , and for all integer n.
(iv) f (an ) = (f (a))n for all a ∈ F1 − {0}, and for all integer n.
(v) f is injective, and the image of F1 under f is a subfield of F2 which is isomorphic
to F1 .

Proof (i) 0 + f (0) = f (0) = f (0 + 0) = f (0) + f (0). Using cancellation law

for addition in F2 , we get that f (0) = 0.
(ii) 0 = f (0) = f (a + (−a)) = f (a) + f (−a). This shows that f (−a) = −f (a).
(iii) Suppose that n = 0. Then 0f (a) = 0 = f (0) = f (0a). Clearly, f (1a) =
f (a) = 1f (a). Assume that f (na) = nf (a) for a natural number n. Then f (n +
1)a = f (na + a) = f (na) + f (a) = nf (a) + f (a) = (n + 1)f (a). By induction,
it follows that f (na) = nf (a) for all a ∈ F1 , and for all natural number n. Suppose
that n = −m is a negative integer. Then, f (na) = f ((−m)a) = f (−(ma)) =
−f (ma) = −(mf (a)) = −(m)f (a) = nf (a).
(iv) Replacing na by an , imitate the proof of (iii).
(v) Suppose that a = b. Then (a − b) = 0. Now, 1 = f (1) = f ((a − b)(a −
b)−1 ) = f (a − b)f ((a − b)−1 ). Since 1 = 0, it follows that (f (a) − f (b)) =
f (a − b) = 0. This shows that f (a) = f (b). Thus, f is injective, and it can be real-
ized as a bijective map from F1 to f (F1 ). It is sufficient, therefore, to show that
f (F1 ) is a subfield of F2 . Clearly, 0 = f (0), and 1 = f (1) belong to f (F1 ). Let
6 1 Vector Spaces

f (a), f (b) ∈ f (F1 ), where a, b ∈ F1 . Then (f (a) + f (b)) = f (a + b) ∈ f (F1 ),

and also (f (a)f (b)) = f (ab) ∈ f (F1 ). Finally, if f (a) = 0, then a ∈ F1 − {0}. But,
then (f (a))−1 = f (a−1 ) ∈ F1 . 
Characteristic of a Field
Let F be a field. Consider the multiplicative identity 1 of F. There are two cases:
(i) Distinct integral multiples of 1 are distinct, or equivalently, n1 = m1 implies that
n = m. This is equivalent to say that n1 = 0 if and only if n = 0. In this case we
say that F is of characteristic 0. Thus, for example, the field R of real numbers,
the field Q of rational numbers, and the field C of complex numbers are the fields
of characteristic 0.
(ii) Not all integral multiples of 1 are distinct. In this case there exists a pair n, m of
distinct integers such that n1 = m1. But, then, (n − m)1 = 0 = (m − n)1.
In turn, there is a natural number l such that l1 = 0. In this case, the smallest
natural number l such that l1 = 0 is called the characteristic of F. Thus, the
characteristic of Zp is p.
Proposition 1.1.11 The characteristic of a field is either 0 or a prime number p.
A field of characteristic 0 contains a subfield isomorphic to the field Q of rational
numbers, and a field of characteristic p contains a subfield isomorphic to the field
Zp .
Proof Suppose that F is a field of characteristic 0. Then n1 = m1 implies that n = m.
Also (m1 = 0) if and only if (m = 0). Suppose that ( mn = rs ). Then (m1)(s1) =
ms1 = nr1 = (n1)(r1). In turn, ((m1)(n1)−1 = (r1)(s1)−1 ). Thus, we have a map
f from Q to F given by f ( mn ) = (m1)(n1)−1 . Next, suppose that ((m1)(n1)−1 =
(r1)(s1)−1 ). Then ms1 = (m1)(s1) = (n1)(r1) = nr1. This means that ms = nr,
or equivalently, ( mn = rs ). This shows that f is an injective map. It is also straight
forward to verify that f is a field homomorphism. Thus, L = {(m1)(n1)−1 | m ∈
Z, n ∈ Z − {0}} is a subfield of F which is isomorphic to Q.
Next, suppose that the characteristic of F is l = 0. Then l is the smallest natural
number such that l1 = 0. We show that l is a prime p. Suppose not. Then l =
l1 l2 , 1 < l1 < l, 1 < l2 < l. But, then 0 = l1 = (l1 l2 )1 = (l1 1)(l2 1). In turn,
l1 1 = 0 or l2 1 = 0. This is a contradiction to the choice of l. Thus, the characteristic
of F is a prime p. Suppose that i = j. Then p divides i − j. In turn, (i − j)1 = 0,
and so i1 = j1. Thus, we have a map f from Zp to F defined by f (i) = i1. Clearly,
this is an injective field homomorphism. 
Exercises
1.1.1 Show that Q(ω) = {a + bω | a, b ∈ Q}, where ω a primitive cube root of
1, is a subfield of the field C of complex numbers.
√ √
1.1.2 Show that 2 is not a member of Q( 2). Use the method
 of Example 1.1.4
√ √ √ √ √
to show that Q( 2)( 2) = {a + b 2 + (c + d 2)( 2) | a, b, c, d ∈ Q}
is a field with respect to the addition and multiplication induced by those in R.
Generalize the assertion.
1.1 Concept of a Field 7
√ √ √ √ √
1.1.3 Show that Q( 2)( 3) = {a + b 2 + (c + d 2)( 3) | a, b, c, d ∈ Q}
is a field with respect to the addition and multiplication induced by those in R.
1 1 2
1.1.4 Show that Q(2 3 ) = {a + b2 3 + c2 3 | a, b, c ∈ Q} is also a field with
respect to the addition and multiplication induced by those in R. Express 1 1 as
1+2 3
1 2
a + b2 3 + c2 3 , a, b, c ∈ Q.

1.1.5 Show that F = {0, 1, α, α2 } is a field of characteristic 2 with respect to the

addition + and multiplication · given by the following tables:

+ 0 1 α α2
0 0 1 α α2
1 1 0 α2 α
α α α2 0 1
α2 α2 α 1 0

· 0 1 α α2
0 0 0 0 0
1 0 1 α α2
α 0 α α2 1
α2 0 α2 1 α

1.1.6 Find the multiplicative inverse of 20 in Z257 , and also find the solution of
10x ⊕ 2 = 3.

1.1.7 Write a program in C++ language to check if a natural number n is prime, and
if so to find the multiplicative inverse of a nonzero element m in Zn . Find the output
4
with n = 22 + 1, and m = 641.

1.2 Concept of a Vector Space (Linear Space)

Consider the space (called the Euclidean 3-space) in which we live. If we fix a point
(place) in the three space as origin together with three mutually perpendicular lines
(directions) passing through the origin as the axes of reference, and also a segment of
line as a unit of length, then any point in the 3-space determines, and it is determined
uniquely by an ordered triple (α, β, γ) of real numbers.
8 1 Vector Spaces

P (α, β, γ)

O
Y

X
Thus, with the given choice of the origin and the axes as above, the space in which
we live can be represented faithfully by

R3 = {x = (x1 , x2 , x3 ) | x1 , x2 , x3 ∈ R},

and it is called the Euclidean 3-space. The members of R3 are called the usual 3-
vectors. It is also evident that the physical quantities which have magnitudes as well
as directions (e.g., force, velocity, or displacement) can be represented by vectors.
More generally, for a fixed natural number n,

Rn = {x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) | x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ∈ R}

is called the Euclidean n-space, and the members of the Euclidean n-space are called
the Euclidean n-vectors. We term x1 , x2 , . . . , xn as components, or coordinates of
the vector x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ). Thus, R2 represents the Euclidean plane, and R4
represents the Minkowski space of events in which the first three coordinates rep-
resent the place, and the fourth coordinate represents the time of the occurrence of
the event. R1 is identified with R. By convention, R0 = {0} is a single point. We have
the addition + in Rn , called the addition of vectors, and it is defined by

x + y = (x1 + y1 , x2 + y2 , . . . , xn + yn ),

where x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) and y = (y1 , y2 , . . . , yn ). We have also the external

multiplication · by the members of R, called the multiplication by scalars, and it is
given by
α · x = (αx1 , αx2 , . . . , αxn ), α ∈ R.
1.2 Concept of a Vector Space (Linear Space) 9

Remark 1.2.1 The addition + of vectors in 3-space R3 is the usual addition of vectors,
which obeys the parallelogram law of addition.

The Euclidean 3-space (R3 , +, ·) introduced above is a Vector Space in the

sense of the following definition:
Definition 1.2.2 A Vector Space (also called a Linear Space) over a field F (called
the field of Scalars) is a triple (V, +, ·), where V is a set, + is an internal binary
operation on V , called the addition of vectors, and · : F × V → V is an external
multiplication, called the multiplication by scalars, such that the following hold:
A. (V, +) is an abelian group in the sense that:
1. + is associative, i.e.,
(x + y) + z = x + (y + z)

for all x, y, z in V .
2. + is commutative, i.e.,
x+y = y+x

for all x, y in V .
3. We have a unique vector 0 in V , called the null vector, and it is such that

x+0 = x = 0+x

for all x in V .
4. For each x in V , we have a unique vector −x in V , called the negative of x, and
it is such that
x + (−x) = 0 = (−x) + x.

B. The external multiplication · by scalars satisfies the following conditions:

1. It distributes over the vector addition + in the sense that

α · (x + y) = α · x + α · y

for all α ∈ F and x, y in V .

2. It distributes over the addition of scalars also in the sense that

(α + β) · x = α · x + β · x

for all α, β ∈ F and x in V .

3. (αβ) · x = α · (β · x) for all α, β ∈ F and x in V .
4. 1 · x = x for all x in V .

Example 1.2.3 Let F be a field, and n be a natural number. Consider the set

V = F n = {x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) | x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ∈ F}
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10 1 Vector Spaces

of row vectors with n columns, and with entries in F. We have the addition + in F n
defined by

x + y = (x1 + y1 , x2 + y2 , . . . , xn + yn ),

where x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) and y = (y1 , y2 , . . . , yn ). We have also the external

multiplication · by the members of F defined by

α · x = (αx1 , αx2 , . . . , αxn ), α ∈ F.

The field properties of F ensures that the triple (F n , + ·) is a vector space over F.
The zero of the vector space is the zero row 0 = (0, 0, . . . , 0), and the negative of
x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ) is −x = (−x1 , −x2 , . . . , −xn ). We can also treat the members
of F n as column vectors.

Example 1.2.4 Let L be a subfield of a field F. Consider (F, +, ·), where + is the
addition of the field F, and · is the restriction of the multiplication in F to L × F.
Then it is evident that (F, +, ·) is a vector space over L. Thus, every field can be
considered as vector spaces over its subfields.

Example 1.2.5 Let C[0, 1] denote the set of all real valued continuous functions on
the closed interval [0, 1]. Since sum of any two continuous functions is a continuous
function, we have an addition on C[0, 1] with respect to which it is an abelian group.
Define the external multiplication · by (a · f )(x) = a · f (x). Then C[0, 1] is a vector
space over the field R of reals. Note that the set D[0, 1] of differentiable functions is
also a vector space over the field R of reals with respect to the addition of functions,
and multiplication by scalars as defined above.

Example 1.2.6 Let Pn (F) denote the set of all polynomials of degree at most n over
a field F. Then Pn (F) is an abelian group with respect to the addition of polynomials.
Further, if a ∈ F and f (X) ∈ Pn (F), then af (X) ∈ Pn (F). Thus, Pn (F) is also a vector
space over F.

Proposition 1.2.7 Let V be a vector space over a field F. Then the following hold:
(i) The cancellation law holds in (V, +) in the sense that (x + y = x +
z) implies y = z (In turn, (y + x = z + x) implies y = z).
(ii) 0 · x = 0, where 0 in the left side is the 0 of F, 0 on right side is that of V , and
x ∈ V.
(iii) α · 0 = 0, where both 0 are that of V , and α ∈ F.
(iv) (−α) · x = −(α · x) for all α ∈ F, and x ∈ V . In particular, (−1) · x = −x.
(v) (α · x = 0) implies that (α = 0 or x = 0).

Proof (i) Suppose that (x + y = x + z). Then y = 0 + y = (−x + x) + y =

−x + (x + y) = −x + (x + z) = (−x + x) + z = 0 + z = z.
(ii) 0 + 0 · x = 0 · x = (0 + 0) · x = 0 · x + 0 · x. By the cancellation in (V, +),
1.2 Concept of a Vector Space (Linear Space) 11

0 = 0 · x.
(iii) 0 + α · 0 = α · 0 = α · (0 + 0) = α · 0 + α · 0. By the cancellation in
(V, +), 0 = α · 0.
(iv) 0 = 0 · x = (−α + α) · x = (−α) · x + α · x. This shows that (−α) · x =
−(α · x)
(v) Suppose that (α · x = 0), and α = 0. Then, x = 1 · x = (α−1 α) · x = α−1 ·
(α · x) = α−1 · 0 = 0. 

1.3 Subspaces

Definition 1.3.1 Let V be a vector space over a field F. A subset W of V is called

a subspace, or a linear subspace of V if
(i) 0 ∈ W .
(ii) x + y ∈ W for all x, y ∈ W .
(iii) α · x ∈ W for all α ∈ F and x ∈ W .

Thus, a subspace is also a vector space over the same field at its own right.
Proposition 1.3.2 Let V be a vector space over a field F. Then a nonempty subset
W of V is a subspace if and only if ax + by ∈ W for all a, b ∈ F, and x, y ∈ V .

Proof Suppose that W is a subspace of V . Let a, b ∈ F, and x, y ∈ V . From the Defi-

nition 1.3.1(i), ax, by ∈ W . In turn, by Definition 1.3.1(ii), ax + by ∈ W . Conversely,
suppose that W is a nonempty subset of V such that ax + by ∈ W for all a, b ∈ F,
and for all x, y ∈ W . Let x, y ∈ W . Then x + y = 1x + 1y belongs to W . Further,
since W is nonempty, there is an element x ∈ W , and then 0 = 0x + 0x belongs
to W . Also for x ∈ W , and a ∈ F, ax = ax + 0x ∈ W . This shows that W is a
subspace of V . 

Example 1.3.3 Let V be a vector space over a field F. Then V is clearly a subspace of
V , and it is called an improper subspace of V . The singleton {0} is also a subspace
of V , and it is called the trivial subspace of V . Other subspaces of V are called
Proper subspaces of V .

Example 1.3.4 (Subspaces of R2 over R) Let W be a nontrivial subspace of R2 .

Then there is a nonzero element (l, m) ∈ W . Since W is a subspace, α · (l, m) =
(αl, αm) ∈ W for all α ∈ R. Thus, Wlm = {(αl, αm) | α ∈ R} ⊆ W . Wlm is easily
seen to be a subspace of R2 . Indeed, Wlm is the line in the plane R2 passing through
origin and the point (l, m). Note that all lines in R2 are of this type. Suppose that
W = Wlm . Then there is a nonzero element (p, q) in W − Wlm . We claim that
ql − pm = 0. Suppose that ql − pm = 0. Since (l, m) = (0, 0), l = 0 or m = 0.
Suppose that l = 0. Then, (p, q) = ( pl l, pl m) turns out to be in Wlm , a contradiction
to the choice of (p, q). Similarly, if m = 0, then (p, q) = ( mq l, mq m), a contradiction.
Now, let (a, b) be an arbitrary member of R2 . Since ql − pm = 0, we can solve the
12 1 Vector Spaces

pair of equations αl + βp = a and αm + βq = b. In other words, (a, b) =

α(l, m) + β(p, q) belongs to W , and so W = R2 . This shows that only proper
subspaces of R2 are the lines passing through origin.

Example 1.3.5 (Subspaces of R3 over R) As in the above example, lines and planes
passing through origin are proper subspaces of R3 over R. Indeed, they are the only
proper subspaces.

Proposition 1.3.6 Intersection of a family of subspaces is a subspace.

Proof Let {Wα | α ∈ } be a family of subspaces of a vector space V over F. Then

0 ∈ Wα for all α, and so 0 belongs to the intersection of the family. Thus, the
intersection of the given family is nonempty. Let x, y ∈ α∈ Wα , and a, b ∈ F.
Then x, y ∈ Wα for all α. Since each Wα is a subspace, ax + by ∈ Wα for all α.
Hence ax + by belongs to the intersection. This shows that the intersection of the
family is a subspace. 

Proposition
 1.3.7 Union of subspaces need not be a subspace. Indeed, the union
W1 W2 of two subspaces is a subspace if and only if W1 ⊆ W2 or W2 ⊆ W1 .

Proof If W1 ⊆ W2 , then W1 W2 = W2 a subspace. Similarly,  if W2 ⊆ W1 , then
also the union is a subspace. Conversely, suppose that W1 W2 is a subspace and W1
is not a subset ofW2 . Then there is an element x ∈W1 which is not in W2 . Let y ∈ W2 .
Then, since W1 W2 is a subspace, x + y ∈ W1 W2 . Now x + y does not belong to
W2 , for otherwise x = (x + y) − y will be in W2 , a contradiction to the supposition.
Hence x + y ∈ W1 . Since x ∈ W1 and W1 is subspace, y = −x + (x + y) belongs
to W1 . This shows that W2 ⊆ W1 . 

Proposition 1.3.8 Let W1 and W2 be subspaces of a vector space V over a field F.

Then W1 + W2 = {x + y | x ∈ W1 , y ∈ W2 } is also a subspace
 (called the sum of
W1 and W2 ) which is the smallest subspace containing W1 W2 .

Proof Since 0 ∈ W2 , x ∈ W1 implies that x = x + 0 ∈ W1 + W2 . Thus,  W1 ⊆

W1 + W2 . Similarly, W2 ⊆ W1 + W2 . Also, if L is a subspace containing W1 W2 ,
then x + y ∈ L for all x ∈ W1 , and y ∈ W2 . Therefore, it is sufficient to show that
W1 + W2 is a subspace. Clearly, W1 + W2 = ∅. Let x + y and u + v belong to W1 +
W2 , where x, u ∈ W1 , and y, v ∈ W2 . Since W1 and W2 are subspaces, αx + βu ∈ W1 ,
and αy + βv ∈ W2 . But, then α(x + y) + β(u + v) = (αx + βu) + (αy + βv)
belongs to W1 + W2 . 

Definition 1.3.9 A family {Wα | α ∈ } of subspaces of a vector space V over a

field F is called a chain if for any given pair α, β ∈ , Wα ⊆ Wβ , or Wβ ⊆ Wα .

Proposition 1.3.10 Union of a chain of subspaces is a subspace.

Proof Let {Wα |α ∈ } be a chain ofsubspaces of a vector space V over a field
F. Clearly, 0 ∈ α∈ Wα . Let x, y ∈ α∈ Wα , and α, β ∈ F. Then x ∈ Wα , and
y ∈ Wβ for some α, β ∈ F. Since the family is a chain, Wα ⊆ Wβ , or Wβ ⊆ Wα .
1.3 Subspaces 13

This means that x, y ∈ Wα , or x, y ∈ Wβ . Since Wα and W

β are subspaces, αx + βy
belongs
 to W α or to W β . It follows that αx + βy ∈ α∈ Wα . This shows that
α∈ W α is a subspace. 
Subspace Generated (Spanned) by a Subset
Definition 1.3.11 A subset S of a vector space V over a field F need not be a
subspace, for example, it may not contain 0. The intersection of all subspaces of
V containing S is the smallest subspace of V containing S. This subspace is called
the subspace generated (spanned) by S, and it is denoted by < S >. If < S > = V ,
then we say that S generates V, or S is a set of generators of V . A vector space V
is said to be finitely generated if it has a finite set of generators.
Clearly, < ∅ > = {0}.
Remark 1.3.12 The subspace < S > of V generated by S is completely characterized
by the following 3 properties:
(i) < S > is a subspace.
(ii) < S > contains S.
(iii) If W is a subspace containing S, then < S >⊆ W .
Definition 1.3.13 Let S be a nonempty subset of a vector space V over a field F.
An element x ∈ V is called a linear combination of members of S if

x = a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · + an xn

for some a1 , a2 , . . . , an ∈ F and x1 , x2 , . . . , xn ∈ V . We also say that x depends

linearly on S.
Remark 1.3.14 If S is a nonempty set, then 0 is always a linear combination of the
members of S, for 0 = 0x. All the members of S are linear combination of members
of S, for any x ∈ S is 1x. Further, if x is a linear combination of members of S, and
S ⊆ T , then x is also a linear combination of members of T . A Linear combination
of linear combinations of members of S is again a linear combination of members of
S.
Proposition 1.3.15 Let S be a nonempty subset of a vector space V over a field F.
Then < S > is the set of all linear combinations of members of S.
Proof Let W denote the set of all linear combinations of members of S. Since mem-
bers of S are also linear combinations of members of S, it follows that S ⊆ W . Thus, W
is nonempty set. Let x = a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · an xn and y = b1 y1 + b2 y2 + · · · bm ym
be members of W , and a, b ∈ F. Then

ax + by = a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · an xn + b1 y1 + b2 y2 + · · · bm ym ,

being a linear combination of members of S, is again a member of W , and so W is a

subspace of V . Let L be a subspace of V containing S. It follows, by induction on r,
14 1 Vector Spaces

that any linear combination a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · + ar xr belongs to L. Thus, W is the

smallest subspace of V containing S. 

In particular, S is a set of generators of a vector space V over a field F if and only

if every element of V is a linear combination of members of S.
Example 1.3.16 The set E = {e1 , e2 , · · · , en }, where

i

ei = (0, 0, . . . , 0, 1 , 0, . . . , 0),

is a set of generators of the vector space F n . Indeed, any member x = (x1 , x2 , . . . , xn )

of F n is the linear combination x = x1 e1 + x2 e2 + · · · + xn en of members of
E. The subset S = {e1 + e2 , e2 + e3 , e3 + e1 } is also a set of generators of
F 3 , for x = (x1 , x2 , x3 ) = α1 (e1 + e2 ) + α2 (e2 + e3 ) + α3 (e3 + e1 ), where
α1 = x1 +x22 −x3 , α2 = x2 +x23 −x1 , α3 = x1 +x23 −x2 (verify).

Example 1.3.17 Consider The subset S = {e1 − e2 , e2 − e3 , e3 − e1 } of R3 .

It is easy to verify that x = (x1 , x2 , x3 ) is a linear combination of S = {e1 −
e2 , e2 − e3 , e3 − e1 } if and only if x1 + x2 + x3 = 0. Thus, the subspace < S >
of R3 generated by S is the plane {x = (x1 , x2 , x3 ) | x1 + x2 + x3 = 0}.

Linear Independence
Definition 1.3.18 A subset S of a vector space V over a field F is called linearly
independent if given any finite subset {x1 , x2 , . . . xn } of S, xi = xj for i = j,

a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · + an xn = 0 implies that ai = 0 for all i.

A subset S which is not linearly independent is called a linearly dependent subset.

Thus, a subset S of a vector space V over a field F is linearly dependent if there is a
subset {x1 , x2 , . . . , xn } of distinct members of S, and a1 , a2 , . . . , an not all zero in F
such that
a1 x1 + a2 x2 + · · · + an xn = 0.

Vacuously, the empty set ∅ is linearly independent. The observations in the following
proposition are easy but crucial, and they will be used often.
Proposition 1.3.19 Let V be a vector space over a field F. Then,
(i)any subset of V containing 0 is linearly dependent,
(ii)every subset of a linearly independent subset of V is linearly independent,
(iii)every subset containing a linearly dependent set islinearly dependent,
(iv) if S is a subset of V , and x ∈< S > − S, then S {x} is linearly dependent,
and 
(v) if S is linearly independent, and x ∈<
/ S >, then S {x} is linearly independent.
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presented an ordered appearance, and, indeed, to any lover of the
picturesque, an aspect quite alluring in its sweet and lofty loneliness.
He had entered and clanked-to the gate behind him, when
something glimmering to the back of a tree-trunk brought him to a
pause, and immediately he advanced upon it, and, skirting the bole,
jerked to a stop and cried, “Betty!”
She stood before him, her head hanging and her face gone a
little white; and she knitted her fingers together and had not, it
seemed, a word to say.
“Why, what are you doing here, in the dusk and the snow?” he
said, in something of a stern voice. “I understood you had gone back
with your grandfather?”
Her forehead, under its hood, took a line of pain, and her lips
trembled. He thought he foresaw the coming shower, and his
reluctance to encourage it made him assume a little harshness.
“Where is your grandfather?” he said coldly and brusquely.
At that she glanced up at him like a frightened child.
“Don’t—don’t be angry with me!” her looks said plainly.
“Betty?” he asked, reproachfully.
“Grandfather went on first,” she whispered, “and I was to
follow.”
“Why? Why didn’t you go with him?”
At that her tears came thick and fast. She shook before him,
trying to repress them.
“You can’t go that long way by yourself,” he said, more gently.
“Why did you remain behind?”
He had to bend his head to catch the hurried, sobbing answer.
“I wanted to see you—only to see you and not be seen. You
have been away—have kept away so long. Have I vexed you? It was
what I thought was right. But I’m weak to hold by all I resolved. I
only wanted to see you, and now I’ll go.”
She moved a quick step towards the gate. He let her retreat a
pace or two. For the first time, I think, he realized what he had been
doing. He struggled fiercely with himself; but, no, he could not part
with her like this.
“Betty!” he cried again, softly. “You must come back to me.”
 She hesitated, turned, and came. He put her in front of him,
and took her face between his hands.
“Oh, my dear!” he said, “what have I done?”
She looked up piteously into his eyes.
“No, no,” she whispered, in a drowned voice, “you’re not to
blame. You keep your word—you would have me keep mine, like the
gentleman you are. It’s—it’s——”
“What, Betty?”
“Only let me see you now and then—see you, and not be
spoken to or noticed.”
“How can I prevent you, if you will? But would it be wise?”
She drew herself away from him gently but forcibly.
“No, it would not,” she said, in a low voice; “but love is never
that. Yes, love—why should I hide it? And I have found out what I
wanted to know. I shall soon hear the bells ringing for your wedding,
and—and—oh! why did you ever kiss me?”
And at that she ran from him. He called to her, hurried after her,
but she was heedless. He saw her speed up the road, and he durst
not follow. He knew that, country-bred girl as she was, she would
make little of the miles to Stockbridge, even were her grandfather
not awaiting her at a distance, which he thought improbable.
Then, retracing his steps with a groan, he went on to his house.
He walked sternly. He was not only despicable in his own eyes, but
cruel in a manner he had not thought was possible to his nature.
As he entered his hall, Dennis came upon him with startled
eyes.
“Sir,” he said, eagerly, “may I have a word with you?”
 CHAPTER XXXV.
“I have found out where was hid the ‘Lake of Wine.’”
Tuke, withdrawn into his dining-hall, was sprung to his feet and
faced his serving-man with wide eyes. He, the latter, was all hurried
and high-strung. His lips looked as if his teeth were chattering.
“God forgive me, sir,” he said, “and grant me no break in your
favour. I would, in His holy name, the bugbear had not risen again to
vex us. But so it is, and I must do my duty by acquainting you of the
particulars.”
“Why, man, what’s all the to-do? You are not about to convict
yourself?”
“Only of carelessness or stupidity, sir, before Heaven. I might
have guessed, had I the wit of a mouse. But her cranks and her
whimsies, poor soul, have been little inviting to my soberer tastes,
and——”
“Whose cranks?”
“My sister Darda’s.”
“Has she revealed the hiding-place?”
“She has known it all along, from near the time when she first
brought the deadly thing into her collection.”
“Now, Dennis, will you craze me by assuming so much of
intuition on my part? Out with it all, man! To what are you alluding?”
“To it, sir—that gallows relic.”
“The skull, do you mean?”
“Yes, yes,” was the low answer.
“And what of it?”
“It is hid therein.”
A pregnant pause fell between the two.
“Now,” said the master presently, “give me the whole history as
plain as you can speak.”
The man looked up appealingly. Some strange knowledge or
emotion was impeding his every effort at an explanation. But at last
he forced himself to speech.
“I have noticed her very strange of late—ever since—I have
noticed her very strange, sir. Her soul seemed caught in a deeper
thrall than she had known before. Somehow there has appeared
more of the woman in her eyes and less of madness. To-day, in the
dusk afternoon, she came upon me out of your library, sir, where she
was at work. ‘Dennis,’ she said, all in a moment, ‘isn’t there a love
that can be bribed with gifts of jewels?’ I answered the poor wench
laughing—‘Oh, yes; no doubt there was.’ ‘Tell him,’ she said—‘tell
him, your master, that I know where the great ruby is hid. I said so
once to him before; but then it was for hate and he should know
nothing. Now he shall learn the truth if he will.’”
“I remember something of it. Go on.”
“‘Tell him I said to you,’ she went on, ‘that the chalky dead eye
of the skull is the jewel itself, and that the eye-socket is its hiding-
place.’”
Tuke drew himself back, uttered a great sigh, and stood staring.
“Oh, sir,” continued the man, “I was as wildly incredulous of it as
you. Much more she said, and that I am fain not to injustice the
poor wench by repeating. But on the main point she was firm.”
“That the very dead eye of the horror was the ‘Lake of Wine’
itself?”
“Yes. And—oh! sir, when at last I came to think of the living
highwayman as I knew him; of his resourceful cunning and
ingenuity; of how, in my memory of him, this fixed and protruding
eye, painted into the semblance of a real one, stood out horribly,
under the nerveless lid, I was forced to the conclusion that she
spoke right, and had been all these years the solitary warder of the
secret.”
“Why did she hold, nor ever reveal it? How could she guess it
was there? And why, being there, did it not escape when the head
fell?”
“Sir, sir, think! She is mad. She would penetrate and maintain
such a secret with every artifice. As to the stone’s breaking away,
the skin was all contracted and toughened about it like leather.”
 “Dennis—this is an insane idea! And yet—why, great God! the
skull’s gone!”
He stared blankly at his man.
“Oh!” he murmured in a moment, “if by any chance there is
truth in this—if the wild story is no bogle of the girl’s distemper—
how my own peevishness and cruelty react upon myself!”
He took the other by the shoulder.
“Dennis,” he said, “you have your revenge at last.”
“No, no, no!”
“Then, where is the skull? What have you done with it?”
The man hesitated.
“Did you burn it, destroy it?” cried Tuke. “Speak out, man! I am
the only one to blame.”
“I did not destroy it, sir. I——”
“Yes, yes. Oh, out with it, in the devil’s name!”
“I gave it to the woman, and she took it away.”
“The woman? What—? Ah! you mean the gipsy I saw you in talk
with.”
It all recurred to him in a moment—the stolen interview; the
bundle passed from one to the other.
“Where is she?” he said faintly. “Do you know where she is?”
“I—yes, sir. I could lead you to the wild place she inhabits.”
“You must do so,” said Tuke eagerly. “I have done an unwitting
wrong to a great sufferer. Dennis, you will lead me to her, won’t
you? and help me to the recovery of this accursed stone?”
“Sir, it is accursed, I think; but I will lead you to her.”
“Good fellow!—But why did you make her its custodian? What
did she want with it; and has she it still?”
“I will answer for her, with her life, in that.”
He looked strange, and his master as strangely on him.
“What did she want with it?” repeated the latter.
“Sir, sir—how can I say? Perhaps for memory of a great criminal,
God forgive him! I implore you not to force me to an answer.”
Tuke scarcely seemed to heed him, or his obvious distress. His
vision was lost in pre-occupation.
 “Wait!” he said, as if talking to himself. “We must take Luvaine
into our confidence before we go further. It is his right to know all;
and he must judge me fairly. Be quiet and secret, my good fellow,
and don’t touch upon this subject again without my invitation.”
He dismissed his servant, and sat for an hour in the red fire-
light deeply pondering. The snow pricked and rustled on the
casement, as he dreamed by the still glowing hearth. A stealthy
noise of mice was behind the wainscot, and through all the house
the stealthy tread of unseen things wandering about the ghostly
rooms overhead. One of these seemed to reveal itself—here, at his
feet. It crept in very quietly, its white bosom heaving, its hair like a
flame of autumn mist, and put warm lips to his hand as it hung
slackly, and seized and held it a moment against its soft neck—and
so went silently the way it had come.
By and by he roused himself, and looked up with a smile, half-
comic and half-pitiful.
“For a country squire of particular morals,” he murmured, “I am
quite unduly St. Anthonied by these visions. Did ever man so pay the
penalty of his weakness?”
 CHAPTER XXXVI.
Sir David Blythewood had a particularly infectious laugh, and like
all men who make a plaything of their own dignity, he was wont to
find his risibilities tickled consumedly before the solemnity of
another’s self-importance. Sooner or later the humorous side of any
situation would find him, and then, perhaps, it was only those at
whom his mischief of merriment was directed who failed to
appreciate his sense of the comical.
Now the history of the “Lake of Wine,” as he knew it, had been
almost a life-long tradition with him, and a very seriously romantic
one, too; but this latest phase of it was destined to quite suddenly
make its appeal to him—after some weighty and respectful
consideration—from a quarter that, it appeared, his gravity had left
unguarded. That it did so is mentioned in this connection for the
reason that a certain explosion of mirth on his part was fruitful of
consequences.
He and Tuke had ridden over to Winchester to acquaint Luvaine
of the progress of events. Perhaps they had not thought to do more
than discuss the matter, according to promise, with this melancholy
monomaniac. He, however, had relieved them of any hospitable
embarrassment they might have felt by at once without any attempt
at apology, inviting himself to return with them, with the intimation
that it would go nearer to satisfy him if they could thresh out the
question on the spot. In order to this, therefore, Tuke—stifling a
certain natural antipathy he felt to the man—had prevailed upon him
to become for awhile his guest at “Delsrop”; and now the three,
slowly trotting by way of a harshly white and iron-bound country,
were making, chill and rather silent, for that lonely dwelling-place.
Riding down into Stockbridge with little concern for anything but
the dangerous road, Tuke had the tail of his eye, nevertheless, for
the “First Inn,” and for Betty standing at the door thereof, serving a
mug of ale to a solitary traveller. The girl dropped a curtsey, as in
duty bound, to the gentlemen, two of whom saluted her in reply—
Blythewood, smilingly; Tuke, gravely; but the wench’s fair soft figure,
standing there in bravery of the bitter cold, and her sad mouth and
lowered eyelids, dwelt with him by many an after mile, and his heart
throbbed out to the forlorn passion he was so hopeless to comfort.
By and by, Sir David turned to his friend a face that struggled
with some tickling convulsion.
“What the deuce is the matter with you?” said the latter.
“Eh? Oh! nothin’—nothin’ whatever, Tuke. I say, did you note
the gentleman in the jumper?”
“Gentleman? Where?”
“Him that was drinkin’ the ale?”
“No, I don’t think I did.”
“Didn’t you? Well, you mark my word, we’ve some more of
these misbegotten rooks flown into the neighbourhood, and it’ll
behoove us to keep the salt ready for their tails.”
“Oh! did he look that sort?”
“That he did.”
“And it made you laugh, eh?”
For answer, all the little man’s features swelled to a ripe colour,
and he seemed on the verge of an explosion. Tuke shook his head
with a grin, repudiating responsibility in the matter, and they rode on
a mile further without a word exchanged amongst them. Then
suddenly Blythewood was rolling in his saddle, shrieking with
laughter, and they all drew rein beside a little copse.
“What inspires this?” said Luvaine, amazed and haughty.
His baneful expression set the young man off again.
“I can’t help it!” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Luvaine—but, but——”
“Well, sir! if you’ll condescend to speak, perhaps we shall be
quick to share in your merriment.”
It was so extremely unlikely as far as he was concerned, that
the mere suggestion brought a fresh paroxysm from the delinquent.
“Oh!” he cried at last—“to think of all these years of a grievance
like yours—of the solemn counsels and the wise heads waggin’—and
then to learn that the gashly eye of the creature that we turned from
lookin’ at should ha’ been the very stone itself!”
 Tuke caught himself grinning again, but Luvaine, furiously red in
a moment, drew up stiff in his saddle.
“And you find this food for laughter?” he said, in a high voice. “A
grievance, quotha!—only a grievance that hath wrought the ruin of
two souls, and for me, in the prime of life, a childless and haunted
old age!”
“Oh, Luvaine!” said Sir David, struggling for gravity, “I didn’t
mean to cheapen you, man, or to withhold my sympathy from the
problematic Mrs. L., who—who ‘very imprudently married the
barber’”—he added, with a shout of merriment.
Tuke saw fit to put in a hasty word.
“He has earned a laugh. Let it be at you or me, Captain
Luvaine; for though I take no loss of the robbery, I swear the
knowledge of it has ridden me like a nightmare.”
The soldier waved his hand.
“Bah!” he said—“the crackling of thorns!”
He dismounted to tighten his saddle-girth.
“David,” he said over the straps, “has had his phases of idiotcy
from my first knowledge of him.”
At this the culprit went into a fresh fit.
“No, but,” he said, when he could recover his voice—“on your
honour d’you believe the girl’s statement, Tuke?”
“Why not? If I’m credulous, I’m happy; and there’s the true
philosophy of life in a nutshell.”
He was struggling with his own imp of merriment. The other
had set it squiggling; so that he was fain to look upon all this
portentous business from a new irreverent point of view.
“And that Cutwater kept the jewel in his eye-hole,” persisted Sir
David, “for all the world to see? And did he sacrifice the sound
article to accommodate it?”
“That I cannot account for. He was blind on one side before
ever you saw him.”
“You’ve got him to the life, I perceive. And he wore a dummy
optic, no doubt, and substituted t’other, all ingeniously painted, for it
when he conceived the resplendent idea?”
“I confess I never thought it out! But you’ve done it masterly.”
 “Ain’t I? What a genius I am!—almost as good a one as
Cutwater (eh, Luvaine?), that was strung up on the downs and a
fortune in his head for any crow to peck at. You’d have given an eye
for an eye to know that, wouldn’t you? But it needed a crazed girl to
see into the creature’s methods, and bag the prize when it fell, while
all the rest of us were hunting counter.”
“Are you taunting me, sir? Let me tell you your jesting is ill-
timed. I would have known better, at least, than to have ordered
away the skull without first examining it.”
“On my honour, sir,” said Tuke, much amused, “I am not a
coroner nor even a J. P.”
“Oh! well,” muttered the soldier—“I am ready, gentlemen.”
As he was preparing to mount:
“Tuke,” said Sir David, “now I think on’t—wasn’t it that girl at
the inn first gave you warning of Mr. Breeds and his gang?”
“Betty Pollack? Yes.”
He answered brusquely, and touched his horse with his heel.
“The women, it seems, give us the lead in this business.”
“Betty,” said Tuke, with a little fierce glow of emotion, “is gold to
the inside of her heart. Now, gentlemen—and keep your eyes alert,
by your favour, as we pass the ‘Dog and Duck.’”
A creaking, and pounding of the frozen snow, and the three
were on their way once more. The long white stretches of road
behind them returned to the sombreness of quiet that their human
voices had interrupted. The very dun sky, that seemed to have
withdrawn in high offence at their careless chatter, drooped down
again, frowning and austere, to resume its ward of the imprisoned
forces of life. No movement was in the stiff spurs of grass or in the
petrified Hedgerows; no least cry of bird or insect in all the wastes of
air.
Yet something there was that gave out a stealthy sound by and
by—something that all the time they talked had held its panic breath
in the copse, and sweated with terror lest the little snap of some
twig under its feet should reveal its hiding-place—something with a
puffed, leaden face and coward eyes—the unlovely Mr. Breeds, in
fact.
 He would not come out into the road, even after the last echo
of the horsemen’s retreat had died away. But he crept to his little
windy house on the hill by the way he had come—and Mr. Breeds’s
way was always a backstairs one. Once only he paused, and his
weak, evil features gathered all the definite expression of
scoundrelism they could master.
“Betty Pollack!” he muttered. “So it was you, my girl, that set
your dirty little torch to the beacon! Now ain’t it dangerous to play
with fire, Betty? And what should you say if it came to burn your
own fingers?”
He mused a moment; then brought his hand softly down on his
thigh.
“But the skull comes first,” he murmured. “What’ll they give me
for that piece of news, I wonder?”
 CHAPTER XXXVII.
The night fell dead and blank, and with it came the snow, crisp,
large-flaked, dropping silently as autumn leaves in a windless
garden. These were but the pickets of a gathering army—whose
cloudy regiments moved up unwieldily from the north-west, where
for weeks they had been forming and manœuvring—and the world
looked indifferently on them, little thinking how presently it should
be overwhelmed in the rush of forces of which they were the
pioneers.
Sometimes a little galloping wind, like one of a distracted staff,
would scatter a company of them right and left; and then to folks
within-doors would sound a rubbing noise on window-panes, as if
stealthy fingers were feeling for the hasp.
“If I had not lived all my life amongst ghosts,” said Luvaine, “I
should fear this house of yours, Mr. Tuke.”
He rose as he spoke (the three gentlemen were sitting over
their wine in the great dining-hall of “Delsrop”), and, walking to the
casement, plucked aside a corner of the wide crimson curtain that
hung thereover, and stood looking out into the night.
“The dark is full of white faces,” he muttered. “They writhe with
laughter and flash down and are gone. There! did you hear that?”
Blythewood glanced, with a shrug of his shoulders, at his host.
“Oh, Luvaine!” he cried—“damn your shuddering fancies! Come
to the table, man, and take your glass like an honest soldier!”
The captain dropped the curtain and walked slowly back to his
place.
“That I am,” he said, “and that I have been through all the
buffets of Fate. But it’s trouble, David, that teaches a man to look
inward; and there, does he concentrate his gaze, he acquires the gift
of second sight.”
“And what does it advantage him to ride with a spectre on his
pillion? I’ve a shorter and pleasanter way to see double.”
 He lifted his glass with a jolly chuckle.
“Here’s to the memory of Mr. Cutwater, the greatest broker of
his age, yet who got broke himself in the end!” he cried.
Luvaine declined to drink.
“Oh!” said Tuke, laughing. “Give him the nail-toast, sir. He hath
kept the gem in trust for you all these years.”
“You are pleased to be facetious, gentlemen. It is all little of a
jesting matter to me. I will not drink a murdering thief.”
“Why,” said Blythewood, “he might retaliate by disputing your
title, since he had the stone in his eye from the first moment of his
hearing of it.”
He chuckled joyously over his own pleasantry; but the other
would condescend to no answer but a wave of the hand to dismiss
the subject.
“Do you drink the night out?” he said. “Mr. Tuke” (he turned
sombrely to his host), “I would be loth to presume upon your
hospitality; but, sir—sir, I must venture to hint I am here for a
purpose that is not yet satisfied.”
Something like a muttered oath escaped from Tuke’s lips. He,
however, forced his good-humour to the front.
“Why, Captain Luvaine,” he said, “I assumed that a travelled
guest would prefer to postpone business to the morning.”
“I cannot look upon this as business, sir, in the ordinary sense—
no more than the signing of a reprieve, every moment in the delay
of which is torture to him most concerned.”
“Well, well—if you regard it in that light.”
Blythewood protested against this unseemly wet-blanketing of a
convivial meeting; but he was graciously overborne by his host, who
rose and rang the bell.
“Send Mr. Whimple to me,” he told the servant who answered
the summons.
The man came flushed and nervous. Tuke saw that the door
was carefully closed; gathered with his friends about the hearth, and
bade Dennis to stand by them.
“Now,” he said, in a low voice, “this is Captain Luvaine,
Whimple, from whose father was stolen the ‘Lake of Wine.’ Tell us
plainly, and in a few words, the story of its discovery by your sister.”
The man bowed and moistened his lips. Once or twice he
glanced in a frightened way about him, as if he sought some
loophole of escape from the situation.
“Gentlemen, ’twas in the winter of ’81 that the body, his body,
fell from the chains, and that the skull was brought hither by my
sister—then a child of five, and a poor natural as she has ever been
—to add to a strange collection of odds-and-ends it has been her
delight to form. And there it had remained to a certain day after the
coming of my master, who took an objection to it, and bade me rid
the house of the thing.”
He paused, and passed a hand across his wet brow.
“Go on,” said Tuke. “I will take the blame of its disappearance,
and I confess I acted harshly to the girl.”
Luvaine, from lowered eyelids, shot a malignant glance at the
speaker.
“There was a woman,” continued Dennis faintly, “that used to
come upon me from time to time for the little help I could afford her
—a strange, wild wanderer, whose hand was against every man as
she imagined every man’s was against her. I gave the skull to her.
She asked for it. She would keep and cherish it, she said, in—in
memory of a great criminal. I gave it to her, and she took it away.”
“Where——?” began Luvaine; but Tuke motioned him to silence.
“Let the man tell his story in his own way,” he said.
“It has been gone long months,” said Whimple, “when suddenly,
this day or two ago, my sister (ah! gentlemen,” he interpolated with
great emotion—“she hath not the wit to distinguish between right
and wrong!) amazes me with the confession that, from early in her
possession of the skull, she has known a great crimson stone—which
later she learned to identify by its fanciful title—to be fixed and
buried in one of its eyesockets, and that this stone had been at one
time cemented smoothly over its outer surface and something
resembling the picture of an eye enamelled thereon. Gentlemen, all
confounded as I was, I rushed to my master, and told him what I
had heard.”
 Luvaine was jerking in his chair and gnawing his knuckles like a
madman.
“Whither has it been taken?” he cried in a strangled voice. “That
is the one moral of this accursed concatenation of accident and
brutality. What has she done with it—where does she live, this
woman? She must be come at—my God! she must be held
responsible and whipped into disgorging.”
Whimple had shrunk back; but for all his instinctive action his
face had taken a dark flush.
“She must be assured from violence, whatever has happened,”
he said in a pretty strong voice, “or I will not move a finger to help
you to her.”
Tuke put in a decided word. This first sign of courage in his
man-servant surprised and pleased him.
“I guarantee her gentle treatment, Dennis,” he said.
The man turned gratefully to his master.
“I know you would, sir. It’s to you I reveal the truth, and God
grant that she won’t curse me for betraying her. Were I to go alone,
and endeavour to recover the relic——”
Luvaine sprang to his feet, interrupting him.
“No!” he cried savagely. “I’ll permit no such risk. I want no
broker to deal for me. Lead me to the place—that’s all I ask.”
Tuke turned to his servant.
“Where is it?” he said, in a note of contempt, that he could not
control, hardening his voice.
Whimple was about to answer, when a sound in the room
disturbed them all. Luvaine broke out into a great oath.
“How did she come in? What does she want? Fling her out at
the door!”
Sir David cried, “Damme, sir! you forget yourself!”
“Captain Luvaine,” said that gentleman’s entertainer, a very ugly
expression tightening his mouth—“making every allowance for your
condition of mind, I must ask you to leave the propriety of my
servants’ behaviour to be judged by me.”
Even at that, the rabid creature could do little but pretend to
control his passion.
 “I will apologize,” he said sullenly. “Take any form of words you
like from me; only do me the kindness to dismiss this person. Surely,
sir, you can see how maddening is this interruption to me at the
critical moment?”
“I can see, indeed, and regret it.”
He walked towards the door, and put his hand kindly on Darda’s
shoulder; for Darda it was that had come, softly and unbidden, into
the room, and who stood silently awaiting the upshot of the
explosion her entrance had evoked.
Her slim white figure, her immobile face and glowing hair, made
of her against the fire-lit wall such a presentment of the spiritual as
one sees in old cathedral frescoes; but, at her master’s touch, a rose
grew to her cheek, announcing her all one at heart with pitiful
humanity.
“What is it, Darda?”
She looked up in his face with solemn eyes.
“The shadows!” she whispered—“they are abroad again; far off
at present—but they are stretching towards the house, and by and
by they will reach it.”
He scanned her face earnestly. Suddenly it recurred to him how
once before this fancy of hers had been significant of a certain peril.
“Come,” he said hurriedly—“come and show me.”
He cried to his companions that he would be back in a moment,
hesitated, and called to Dennis to follow him. Luvaine uttered a wild
exclamation; but he took no heed of it.
Out in the hall, the girl sped swiftly to the stairway, the two men
following her. A startled housemaid made room for them to pass,
and afterwards announced in the kitchen that she had seen “crazy”
playing follow-my-leader with master and her brother.
Up to the very top floor of the house; further, by way of a flight
of steps, to a trap-door, and so to the leads, where the frost sparkled
like emery paper, Darda climbed and the men pursued her. And
there, in the high freezing night, she stood erect and pointed with
her hand.
Tuke gave out a note of surprise. Far away, where Stockbridge
townlet lay under the horizon hills, a broad blot of crimson was
soaked into the sagging of the cloud-canopy above. This red stain
palpitated like a very heart of fear, so that to gaze on it was to be
insensibly influenced by a sympathetic emotion; and, in the beating
of its pulse, rays and spars of shadows shot forth and were
withdrawn and appeared again in other quarters, as if truly
something were there struggling in its death throes.
“Dennis—whereabouts is it?”
“By the position, sir, well east of the village; about Mr. Pollack’s
inn, I should reckon.”
His master started violently.
“Pollack’s inn?” he muttered, and cried, “Good God! it must be
blazing to the roof!”
A momentary amazed expression was on his face—something,
some sense of omen or catastrophe, knocked at his heart;—then he
addressed his man with immediate decisiveness.
“Order my horse to be saddled, Dennis—quickly and silently. Say
nothing of it to those within there; but, when I am gone, make Sir
David my apologies and ask him, if he will, to await my return.”
The servant responded and disappeared. For some minutes
Tuke stood, his gaze concentrated on the wavering splotch of light,
his brain banded, it seemed, with a filament of steel. If any figure
was imaged tenderly and pitifully in his soul, it was not that that
breathed close by him in the icy shadow of the roof, that watched
his every look and motion like a dog. Indeed, so little was she that
had brought him there in his mind, that when in another minute he
turned to descend, he almost brushed her in his passage without
being recalled thereby to thought of her presence.
Going softly down, he found Dennis already mounted in the
yard, with the bridle of his master’s horse held in his hand.
“Whimple!” he exclaimed.
“I go with you, sir,” said the man boldly. “Who knows what you
may be riding to?”
“But, my good fellow—Sir David and the captain?”
“Sir, you come first. I have passed on your message.”
How could he gainsay him? It gave him a thrill of exquisite
pleasure thus to experience a devotion that could so over-crow a
constitutional timidity.
Silently together they padded it down the snowy drive, and in
another minute were galloping along the road to Stockbridge.
High on the roof a figure watched their departure. The girl had
scarcely moved since her master left her alone. But now her slender
feet went crisp on the frost as she paced to and fro in the angle of
the gables.
Once, suddenly, she paused at the limit of her path where the
gutter-ledge, knee-high, formed the topmost courses of the house-
front. And here she leapt upon the parapet, and stretched out her
arms in a perilous manner into the dizzy whiteness of space.
“I know,” she said, nodding downwards fantastically. “But would
you catch me if I jumped? It would hurt him to the heart to find me,
when he comes back, lying there all crushed and broken.”
She seemed to listen, her face falling into shadow.
“To the heart,” she repeated, with a catch in her voice. “It would
—it would, for all your secret laughing.”
 CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Pushing onward at what fury of speed the dangerous state of the
road permitted, Tuke, like a good captain, would not subordinate his
prudence to his eagerness. True, he had nothing but a vague sense
that some evil was abroad, to justify his mood of suspicion; yet,
forasmuch as this mood was unaccountable, it behoved him to move
circumspectly through the first stages of reconnoitre.
Therefore it was that coming to the top of the long dip, on the
crest of whose further slope stood Mr. Breeds’s little ill-omened
tavern, he called to Dennis and, pulling on his left rein, cantered his
horse on to the easterly downs, with the idea of making a détour
that should bring him into the Winchester road a half-mile above
Stockbridge.
This was judicious enough; but it was some aggravation of his
impatience to find now with what infinite caution it was necessary to
proceed over the frozen wastes of grass and crumbling chalk
patches. A rushed camp of mole-hills—a film of cat-ice, roofing some
unsuspected hollow, trodden upon—and all his fine purposes of help
might end in a broken neck. Fortunately there was a young wintry
moon, whose radiance, struck back from the snow, made such a
spectral twilight as it was possible to steer through.
He groaned to himself as yard by yard they crept upon their
way and still the red glow seemed as far off as ever. Once indeed,
looking as in a dream, he fancied they must have wandered widely
afield, away from, instead of towards the fire; for then the latter
seemed to have sunk in a little glimmer amongst distant hills, as if
many miles separated it from them. But the next moment there
came a great bellying upward of smoke, distinctly evident to their
eyes; and immediately the pall was attacked and devoured by a
dozen shooting tongues of flame, that slobbered myriads of sparks
like blood as the monster of fire rent its prey.
“The roof has gone in, sir.”
 “Aye, aye, Dennis. We must be near the road by now, I think.”
Not so near as he hoped and desired. It was a full hour and a
half from the start when they broke at last into the Winchester
highway and went down cautiously into the village. For many
minutes before, there had been no doubt in Tuke’s mind but that his
worst apprehensions would be realized. The “First Inn” it was that
was alight—the old house endeared to him, in a sense, by more than
one tender memory.
“How did it happen?” he asked of himself; and thought half-
comically—“I must assure the poor girl it was like enough to have
been spontaneous combustion, from the long warmth of hospitality it
carried in its heart.”
Then he rebuked his levity
“Betty, Betty,” he thought, “are you safe, my dear?”—and at the
fear the word evoked his breath caught in something like a sob.
The fury of the fire was over when they came upon the scene
and stopped before the ravaged and gutted carcass of the once
picturesque inn. But still the blackened walls blossomed with little
spits and fronds of flame; and scarlet lines drawn upon the heavy
curtains of smoke showed where smouldering beams clung
tenacious of their hold.
The road was full of a drifting and pungent fog, and therein the
whole village was alive, scurrying hither and thither in excitement
like a colony of ants whose nest had been overturned.
On the outskirts of this press the two men, dismounted, were
standing holding their horses, when a country youth, his red face all
blubbered with tears and dust, came hurriedly up to them and
seized Tuke by the sleeve.
“Master—Master Took!” he exclaimed in a broken voice.
“Jim!—Good God, man! how did this come about?”
“By foul play, your honour; and may the living hell be their
portion that done it!”
“Steady, man!”
“I’ll ha’ justice o’ them—I’ll ha’ justice o’ them, by the Lord!
Look at it! look here! Missy Pollack’s home—her that never done a
hard thing by a soul, and treated poor Jim like a man. Drove a
pauper at a blow, and her grandfather all burnt and choked and she
cluckin’ to him like a hen that’s laid.”
“Where is she? Take me to her.”
The poor fellow pulled him forward immediately, shouting to
those who interposed to make way for the gentleman that was come
to see justice done on scoundrels and murderers. Some stared and
some grinned, but one and all were too loutishly absorbed in the
extempore show that yet crackled for their benefit to thrust an
undesirable company upon him. So they let him pass undisturbed,
and continued to ply the ashes from their useless buckets with what
water they could find, while buffoonery and the animal jest at
another’s misfortune kept them in a fine glow of good-humour.
To a barn in an adjacent yard Jim conducted his captive by way
of a side-gate that had been closed against intruders. Within,
gathered about the open door of the shed, was a little knot of men,
whose dress showed them for the most part to be of the respectable
class of village gentry. These Tuke saluted as he advanced.
“I trust, gentlemen,” he said, “that this I hear of the innkeeper
is an exaggerated report?”
One of the company, who was muffled up in a great surtout and
swung a horn lantern in his hand, detached himself from the group
and came towards him.
“The man is dead, sir,” he said.
“Dead?”
“He has succumbed to shock induced by a period of inhalation
of irrespirable gases, and aggravated by some superficial burns. I
am Dr. Harmsworth, sir, at your service.”
Mr. Tuke bowed.
“And can you inform me, Dr. Harmsworth,” he said, “of the
history of this catastrophe?”
“In faith, sir, I cannot. But it looks an ugly business. The wench,
it appears, was gone to visit a neighbour, and the stableman to
squire her. When they return—there is smoke leaking through the
roof of the tap. They burst in, and are met by a vaporous volley of
flame. The old man is down on the floor, insensible in the midst of it.
They drag him out, and the young man hath the wit to observe that
the fire has its three distinct sources or centres of eruption. That, to
my mind, suspicions of some foulness. But him that could have best
acquainted us of the truth has his mouth sealed to the Day of
Judgment.”
“He is dead.”
“He is dead, sir.”
“And his granddaughter?”
“She is in there with the body. Her grief is very poignant for the
moment.”
“I must see her.”
“By your leave, sir—”
“I must see her, Dr. Harmsworth. You needn’t say me nay, sir. I
know, and would act the part of friend by her.”
The doctor would have further protested, but Jim put him
roughly to one side and made a way for his gentleman.
“In here, sir,” he said.
It was a little sombre, pathetic scene that Tuke faced as he
entered. A flaring candle, stuck in a cleft-stick, split up the windy
darkness of the interior into spokes of light and shadow. From the
roof, great misty mats of cobwebs drooping, swayed in the draught
like grotesque banners hung appropriately to the lying-in-state of
the dusty thing on the floor. Thereover a hard-grained female was
stooped, engaged in covering the dead face with a napkin; and
leaned upright against a partition, her head dropped listlessly upon
her arm, was the poor living victim of all this tragic gallimaufry.
“Betty!”
A start and a shiver went through her, but she did not raise her
face.
“I saw the glare,” he whispered behind her into her upturned
ear, “and my heart misgave me and I rode over to your help. Yes, it
is too late for him, Betty; but, for yourself, my dear? It is no time to
speak of it all now; but if there has been villainy here, I will spend
my fortune at need to procure its punishment. Betty!”
She only buried her face deeper in her arm. He put his hand on
her shoulder with a caressing touch; then removed it and crossed to
the kneeling woman.
 “Tell me,” he said, stooping and speaking low—“has she any one
relation in the village?”
“No, sir. Them two was alone in the world.”
“Friends—acquaintances? Any single soul who would show her
kindness in this great affliction?”
The woman scrambled to her feet.
“Betty was none disliked,” she said. “But, Lord ha’ mercy, sir! is
it righteous to talk to the poor, in sick a winter as this, o’ the grace o’
charity? Will your honour look at the gal, and tell me if them busts
and shoulders was like to ha’ been nourished on pitaty parings?”
“She is ruined?”
The woman stared.
“Saving your honour, I won’t believe it. The gal is no road for
the men, but as good a wench as ever served a pot.”
“Ruined, I mean, in the sense of fortune. She hath lost her all in
this burning?”
“Ah! I misdoubt she’s worth no more than the clothes she
stands in.”
“If I give you money, will you honestly do the last duties by the
dead here?”
“Aye, that will I.”
“So that, if I procure the maid an asylum, she may feel happy
that her grandfather will be laid decently to earth?”
“Aye, aye.”
She held out an eager hand; let those who have starved in a
bitter winter call it a covetous one. She fingered each of the gold
pieces as if it were a fairy flower of her imagination.
Tuke returned softly to the girl, who had never changed her
position. He put his arm gently about her waist.
“Betty—I tell you to come with me.”
“No, no!”
Her voice shivered up, all drowned and bewildered.
“You must come, dear. This is no longer a place for you. I will
arrange all matters necessary about—about him there, and I will
take you into my service.”
 She only lowered her head deeper, and gave out a miserable
sigh.
“You are forlorn and alone in the world, Betty. You would have
to exchange your independence for a wretched drudgery.”
At that she looked up at last, and put her hair from her wild
eyes and wet cheeks.
“I should be honest,” she whispered. “They could not be cruel to
blame me even if I starved. Why should I help you to a lie and
myself to misery?”
“To a lie, Betty?”
She flashed round on him quite suddenly.
“What is the sort of service you offer me?” she cried.
He did not answer. Irresistibly impassioned, he seized her
fiercely in his arms. The woman had gone out and for the moment
they were alone.
“Betty, you shall come! I will try to be fair with you. If you have
fought against this, so have I.”
“Hush, hush!” she cried pitifully. “Oh! think of him there!”
“He offered you to me for a price. I curse myself for telling you
this now; but I must have you by fair means or foul.”
She fell against him, weeping heavily, while he held her.
“Oh, for shame!” she gasped, “that I should be put up to be bid
for in my innocence! What brutes are men!”
“I won’t gainsay you. But, Betty, am I to live on in my warm
house and know her cold and hungry that all my soul longs to?”
“Don’t!—oh, don’t talk to me like that!”
“Give me your lips, wench. Come! I will have them. By this and
this, Betty, through every fibre of your sweetness I love and claim
you.”
“Oh, what am I to do?”
“As I bid you, girl.”
He had out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and he
smoothed her roughened hair and kissed her again into servility.
Then he led her unresisting towards the door; and there was Jim
mounting guard.
 “Jim,” he said—“Missy Pollack is coming home with me. Go and
find my man and bid him lead the horses thitherwards to some place
where we can mount in quiet.”
The fellow sped away, and Tuke, leaving the girl by the barn-
door, walked across to the doctor who was withdrawn with his
friends to a little distance.
“Dr. Harmsworth, the pleasure of a word with you, sir.”
The other detached himself from the group and joined him.
“This unfortunate young woman is known to me. I take her into
my service, with her consent and approval, and make myself
responsible for her safe custody. You will greatly oblige me by
undertaking the business of the proper interment of these poor
remains, and you will apply to me for all professional and sundry
charges. I am Mr. Tuke of ‘Delsrop,’ where I am to be seen and held
to account for claims both moral and practical.”
The doctor gave a stiff bow.
“I am acquainted with you by report, sir, and will be happy to
honour your instructions. As for the wench, she is of an age to
negotiate her own business, and, I trust, to exhibit prudence in the
conduct of it.”
He looked hard at the other, who saluted very rigidly in
response.
“You can do her only justice, I am sure,” said he; and bowed
once more and turned on his heel.
He found the girl prostrate on her knees beside the dead body—
sobbing—appealing to it—murmuring broken words of penitence and
love. She had moved the napkin from the face, and Tuke saw the
cunning still engraved finely about the sightless eyes, and the little
close leer of covetousness at the corners of the mouth, which
showed a grotesque, clownish distortion of shape in the sooty border
that suffocation had painted round it. Knowing what he did, he could
not bear to see her thus wasting her heart of affection on the dead,
unworthy thing. He stooped, and put his arm about her, and drew
the cloth once more over the face.
“Come,” he said, and helping her to her feet, pulled off his own
great-coat and wrapped it about her shoulders.
 At that, “No, no!” she whispered. “You will perish of the cold.”
“I am going to take you pillion, Betty; and you must clasp your
warm hands over my heart and keep it beating for you. That is your
charge.”
He hurriedly withdrew her and urged her up the road. A little
distance off they came upon the two men with the horses. Tuke
sprang to his saddle, gave the girl a hand, and pulled her to a seat
behind him.
“God bless your honour!” cried poor Jim.
“What of you, my good fellow?”
“What but the Union, master?”
“Get up behind my servant. You shall serve your mistress yet.”
Betty gasped.
“Did you kiss my shoulder, Betty?”
No answer.
With a light laugh Tuke touched up his horse, and the deadly
cold of the night met them full-face as they sped homewards.
 CHAPTER XXXIX.
By all the chill miles homewards, whatever and what varying
emotions prevailed in the breasts of the little party found no
expression in words. Indeed there could be no passion of feeling in
that bitter night so hot as to resist the numbing influence of a frost
that seemed to glaze the roof of one’s mouth, if opened to speak,
with ice. Tuke felt little but the instinct to prick his snorting beast
onwards with bloodless heels. Yet through all he was conscious of a
spark that glowed and wavered in him like a pulse—a little fierce
flame of triumph and of ecstasy—a suffusion of audacity, or
repudiation of the formal conduct to which he had vainly struggled
to subscribe. He had no deliberate plan of evil in his soul; neither
had he the courage or the inclination to face the situation of his own
contriving. He had snapped under a strain, so it seemed to him; and
that was all. For the moment it was exquisite pleasure to feel all his
moral fibres relaxed as he drove intoxicated before the force he had
for a time withstood.
“Your fingers are a love-knot about my heart, Betty,” he once
said over his shoulder. “It should be a toasting fire for their comfort.”
He gently unslackened the clasp of the brown hands and bent
and put one to his lips.
“They are cold as snow, sweetling,” said he. “The little bones of
them are stiff as flower-stalks; and they are as pretty, Betty, and by
and by the buds shall break on them, if you please. Would you like
these poor cold little stalks to blossom into pearls and rubies?”
She tried to pull her hand away; but he would not let her.
“No,” she said in a weeping voice. “Oh! how can you put me to
the shame?”
“Is it shame? That must be a stale superstition. It were shame
in my eyes to pluck my flower and leave it to wither.”
“Shame to the flower, that must be a bold, flaunting weed to
invite such notice.”
 “Betty, that is sorry logic. What weed ever won man’s heart?”
“I had best slip off and go back to my dead.”
“Down with you, girl! and we will lie and die in the snow
together.”
“Oh, me! What can I say? Will your honour not ride on and
forget I am here?”
“To be sure, Betty—as I forget myself. You had best not remind
me of it by addressing me so.”
“I am your honour’s servant.”
“Lip-service, wench. No, it will not do. Before others as you like;
but alone with me—there, don’t cry! the frost will catch your tears,
and your lashes will be hung with diamonds no gift of mine. We
must think this all out, Betty, by a glowing fire. It is too cold here.
That little touch on my heart is the only feeling I am conscious of.”
“And you gave me your coat! Oh! take it—take it.”
“That I shall not.”
“I am warm—indeed I am.”
“Lie in your burrow, little rabbit, and hide your eyes from the
dogs. We go up to Mr. Breeds’s tavern here, and I don’t know what
may be abroad.”
He had decided to risk the main road for their return. The
augmentation of his party, the necessity of direct progress in that
killing cold were his sufficient reasons. They rode past the house and
awakened nothing but echoes from its stony walls. On the blind of
the lighted tap fell the shadows from within of a group of men. No
notice, however, was taken of the little cavalcade as it went silently
by outside in the snow.
“Betty, can you spell?”
“Oh! yes.”
“Spell this, then: l-o-v-e-r. What, you can’t? I must put you to
school. See, l-o-v-e, and r for the little thumb that points at me. That
is your lesson; and now here’s a prize for the quick scholar in the
palm of her hand. Close it and keep it. You won’t? Then you shall
return it to me in the dark by and by.”
He hardly knew what nonsense he talked. A core of fire flickered
in the numbness of his brain. He gave a whoop! like an excited boy
presently as a herd of fallow deer—some twenty or thirty of them—
broke from a covert and went beating down the road in front of
them.
“These must be some of friend David’s,” he cried.
The poor beasts were smitten with the frost-fright—the
desolation of despair that induces the last appeal of the lower to the
higher animal. “If he who by his cunning can stultify all our
traditional methods of self-protection,” they must argue, “be as full
of resource as of foresight, and as full of noble clemency withal, it
were well to submit ourselves to his mercy.” And so in strange times,
man’s littleness is forced upon himself, because all his vaunted
superiority cannot make food in a wilderness or flesh on starved
bones; and he cries aloud and his voice returns to him as an empty
echo. Then, “I must kill,” he says, “that there may be fewer mouths
to feed”; and he kills, and fancies that he has mastered the problem
of life.
The deer cantered before the horsemen, grunting and shaking
their heads. They had no action of escape, but seemed rather to
have deliberately entrusted themselves, for safe passage to a
greener land of hope, to this human convoy. They went down, a
dusky bob of backs, into the hollow where was the entrance to
“Delsrop”; and here, led by some attraction of the mightier race,
they turned into the drive—for the gate had been left open—and
trotted along it as far as the lawn, against the sheltering shrubberies
of which they took refuge. And, upon the morrow, the most of them
were discovered patiently waiting and snuffling about the stable-
doors; and an empty coach-house was thrown open and scattered
with hay for their benefit; and there, for a time at least, the trusting
creatures found the help and protection they sought.
Reaching the door of his house at last, Tuke swung a leg over
his beast’s withers and, leaping to the ground, pulled Betty into his
arms and landed her by his side. The other two, close upon him, had
dismounted at the same moment. He called Dennis to him—the
formal and authoritative master.
“You will speak to your sister, and see that this young woman,
whom I am taking into my service, is fitly lodged and provided for.
To-morrow I shall assign her her duties. In the meantime she is to
meet with every sympathy and consideration. The man, also, you
must accommodate with suitable quarters. You know my interest in
the girl, and the circumstances of her misfortune. I leave her proper
reception to your charge.”
Not another word he said; but when they had been admitted by
an amazed wench, he nodded gravely to the little group, and turned
into his own dining-hall.
Here, as if his opening of the door had released a spring,
Luvaine came at him like a Jack-of-the-clockhouse.
“This is well,” he cried in a high manner of sarcasm—“this is well
and hospitable to quit affairs of state for the entertainment of a poor
guest or so!”
The wine was still on the table, and it was evident the soldier
had had free recourse to it for the smothering of his intolerable
suspense. His thin hair was rumpled; his eyes bloodshot; a
slumberous demon of fury seemed to struggle in him for
wakefulness. Flung into an elbow-chair by the hearth, Sir David
discordantly acknowledged the potency of his own cups. No doubt
he had drunk himself to sleep to escape the other’s company.
“You have some title to offence, sir,” said the returned host.
“You have been acquainted with the cause of my absence, I believe;
but I think no words of mine will persuade you to exonerate me
from blame. Still, I make you my apologies for what was virtually
inevitable.”
“Well, sir, well. And you are prepared, I presume, to take up the
thread where you dropped it?”
“Oh! I cry you mercy, Captain Luvaine. What would you have,
sir? The night is far advanced; I have had an exhausting experience
of travel. On my honour, I must recuperate for the next move.”
“Mr. Tuke, do you mean to tell me, with all deliberateness, that
you purpose resting upon my sickness—upon my agony of suspense,
sir, counting the question of my reason as nothing compared with
your little bodily discomfort?”
“If you will put it crudely, sir; why, so must I. I refuse to act
further until I have rested; and you will do well to school your