Amidst the scene to find,Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Amidst the scene to find,Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Amidst the scene to find,Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Amidst the scene to find,
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
they endeavor to prepare themselves to breast the storm, should sorrow come again upon the little band.
All but Minnie, her grief was violent and willful, refusing all comfort, rejecting the means of softening it while it lasted; but there was no change in her light volatile disposition; and Kate, poor Kate! wise from sad experience, lectured in vain.
“Where is Blanche?” said Lisa, coming in from the garden with her bonnet on. “Do you know Minnie?”
“Do I know? Yes; she’s hid in the moon, if you can’t find her; for that is where Ariosto says every thing is hid that is lost.”
“Pshaw, Minnie! do not be foolish. Where is Blanche?”
“Tell me what you want with her, and I will take a broomstick and ride after her then?” said the wild girl. “I must be paid for so much trouble before I undertake it.”
“I would you could promise to stay in the clouds a while and freeze your spirits into reason. But my wants are no secret or I’d never tell you, madcap Minnie. Go and find Blanche, and ask her for the key of the silver closet.”
“And that is all! I’m sorry I promised now, as the contempt I feel for the errand makes it disgraceful. But here I go, being honor itself about keeping promises.”
“Excepting those you make to become better and wiser,” rejoined Lisa, as she ran off. In an instant she was back.
“Lord bless us! She is in the library listening to Kenneth read Cosmos. I wish he’d putmeto sleep sometimes, as I am sure he often does his wife.”
“I wish he would!” said Lisa, “and he would oblige others besides myself. Go and ask Kate to come down in the store-room and help me.”
“And what do you want with Kate in the store-room, Miss Lisa?” said Minnie, as she tied the key she held to the string of her bonnet. “There must be something going on that I cannot guess.”
“I want her to make an Italian cream for dinner, while I busy myself with something else that does not concern you.”
“On the principle of ‘Faut être deux pour avoir du plaisir,’ I presume,” said Minnie. “How affecting! But something is in the wind, Lisa, or you would not fuss over creams, etc. Is any one expected to dinner?”
“I give you permission to expect as many persons as you like,” replied she, with provoking gravity. “Tell me their names, and I will prepare the banquet.”
“I never saw such a mysterious old oracle as you are! Getting out more plate, more napkins, and steeping gelatin with so much solemnity, as though we never did have company in our lives before, then preserving such a dark cloud of silence on the subject! Kate! who is coming here to-day—tell me, and don’t be foolish about it?” cried Minnie. “Sister is enveloped in mystery and wont let me know.”
“Kate does not know herself,” said Lisa, smiling; “but may be she can guess.”
“This is Rose’s birth-day,” said Kate, after a pause, “and—”
“And I forgot it!” exclaimed Minnie, as she burst into a flood of tears. “The first one she ever passed away from home!”
“And the last, I trust,” said Kate, tenderly. “Poor, dear Rose! I wonder where she is now!”
“Enjoying herself very much, I suppose,” said Lisa, crushing a lump of sugar into her bowl of eggs, “and wishing we were all with her. She would be surprised at the idea of your crying about her, I dare say.”
Minnie made a step forward, and threw down a cup that was too delicate for such rough usage.
“There!” said her sister, “you have your day’s work before you. I never saw such a careless girl.”
“Never mind,” said Minnie, collecting the fragments, and smiling through her tears, “this will do to place among
The broken teacups,Wisely kept for show,
The broken teacups,Wisely kept for show,
The broken teacups,Wisely kept for show,
The broken teacups,
Wisely kept for show,
thatyoukeep on the shelf there. I’ll cement it for you.”
“Thank you! I wish you could mend some of your bad habits as easily as you promise to patch broken china. It would keep you busy for life.”
“Alas, poor Minnie!” said the girl, “how unjust the world is! What can I do?”
“Go and see that Sampson puts the dining-room in extra trim, and fill the finger-bowls,” said Lisa.
“Dear sister! I am not Dalilah, and cannot manage the strong hero of antiquity,” said Minnie, with affected humility. “But I will crown the bowls with orange leaves, and perform any other lowly task with much pleasure.” And she left the room singing a light song, that ever and anon fell sweetly on the ears of that united household as they paused to catch the tones of the young, rich voice.
“Mr. Selby and his nephew dine with us,” said Lisa, as she and Kate compounded their dessert together, “and as the latter is about to sail for Europe, papa has promised him letters for Uncle Bliss and Rose.”
“Indeed!” said Kate. “That will be very pleasant for them to see any one that can give such direct news of us. Do you remember to have seen young Mr. Selby, Lisa?”
“When he was a little boy, I saw him once at his uncle’s, but he has been at college for years past. He is now on a farewell visit, and will not return for some time, of course. I hope he will be like old Mr. Selby, for he is one of the kindest and most agreeable men I ever knew.”
“Yes, he is universally beloved. Paul esteems him highly, and often goes to him for advice.”
And Kate thought Paul’s opinion sufficient to determine the importance of the universe.
Minnie had her own ideas, and very soon found herself in merry conversation with Harry Selby, who devoted himself to his pretty neighbor at dinner with a zeal that made his uncle laugh.
“What is that, Miss Minnie? What did you say then?” asked he across the table.
“I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Selby will return a true hearted American, after seeing all the splendor and beauty of the old world,” replied Minnie, glancing at him with her bright eyes.
“Of course he will,” said the uncle. “Do you think now that any of the English blondes, the French brunettes, or the Italian signoras, will ever drive your saucy face out of his mind?”
Minnie blushed—so did Harry; but she parried the attack.
“Oh, he can easily forgetme, for this is our first meeting, and will be the last; but there must be many persons whom he could not under any circumstances so wrong—yourself, for instance.”
Mr. Selby laughed. “And so you think that my ugly phiz will be the one to haunt a young fellow on his travels. Do him justice, Minnie, and give him credit for a dash of sentiment at least. Do you think him insensible to the charm of dark eyes and all that?”
“By no means, sir; but it would be impertinent on so short an acquaintance to attempt to fathom so mysterious a thing as a human heart, such as I suppose belongs to Mr. Selby.” And Minnie blushed again as a pair of large, brown eyes met hers with an unequivocal glance of admiration.
The owner of said orbs began something like a compliment; but there was an unnecessary tinkling of the ice in Minnie’s glass, and she did not appear to hear it. Besides, at that particular moment, Paul leant forward, and asked for some information about a planing machine; and the conversation turning on inch-boards, weather-boards, and thousands of feet of lumber, the ladies rose and left the table to adjourn to the parlor.
Harry soon followed them—what cared he for planing-mills? And Blanche made room for him by Minnie, the place he evidently wanted, for he never left it until his uncle called to her for some music, and a “good old song.”
Unfortunately for him, young ladies play too well now-a-days to require a book before them, and as there were no leaves to be turned, Harry stood at a distance, admiring the rapid little fingers as they flew over the ivory.
“Who taught you?” exclaimed he, as she ended Rosellen’s pretty variations from Don Pasquale, “who taught you?”
She pointed to Kate, who nodded her head with a proud smile.
“Is it possible! When I get to Paris, I shall boast of my countrywoman, Mrs. Linden, for I am confident—”
“But the song of Minnie, the song!” interrupted Mr. Selby senior. “I asked for a song, young lady.”
“I know it, sir, but I will leave that to the rest, as I can only boast of a few notes as yet.” And Minnie rose and gave her place to Blanche.
“Minnie does not like to show off unless she is sure of creating a sensation,” said Mr. Linden, laughing as she took her seat beside him. “If you did but know, Mr. Selby, what a wonderful debut she is prepared to make; all the young ladies will hide their diminished heads next year at her first Mazourka, and never dance again. Wont they, Minnie?”
“You flatter me,” said she, smiling good humoredly. “I only intend to beoneof the stars—not the bright particular one, for I have only my wits to help me out.”
“And they will be all sufficient,” said old Mr. Selby, patting her cheek. “I’m sure of my little pet’s entire success in the great world of fashion. How many ball-dresses is Rose to bring across the wide ocean?”
“Oh, she has carte blanche,” returned she, “and I will send for you as soon as they are unpacked, that you may determine my first costume.”
But the evening wore away, and the family separated at an early hour, as the letters must be written to Rose for the next morning. Each had a volume to say, and Minnie’s exceeded the third page, as she had promised such faithful accounts of home to the wanderer, even the dogs were immortalized that night, for an affecting account of Ponto’s regret for his mistress drew tears from the writer’s own eyes.
“Lord bless us! what a correspondence,” exclaimed Mr. de la Croix, as the letters were thrown on the table. “Poor Rose will never get through it.”
“There’s a postscript from Kenneth, and myself, of course,” said Paul, as he threw down a pretty envelope. “An endless communication from Minnie, six pages between Blanche and Kate, two from Lisa, she being too sensible to waste time, and a well filled sheet from you, sir. Rose will have work and instruction for a week when all this reaches her. Did you have a good pen, Minnie?”
“To be sure I did,” replied she, looking up.
“Then I rejoice, for Rose’s sake, your calligraphy being at times very Egyptian. However, Harry Selby will take great pleasure in assisting her to decipher it, I dare say; and I feel much relieved on her account.”
Minnie pulled his hair for him at this declaration, and vowed revenge. Rose could read her writing very well, though others might be dull enough to suspect the contrary.
There was a charm about Minnie that was irresistible—it was her unvarying good humor, her sweet, even temper. Even while asserting her willful but childish dislike of reproof it was impossible to be angry with her. Nothing like an angry retort ever passed her lips; as ineffectual as a reprimand was to her wild spirit, she took it smilingly, and disarmed displeasure with her winning ways. No wonder that her sisters loved her; no wonder they feared for her as years passed, and she was yet untamed. Impulsive, obedient to these impulses, and inconstant in her tastes, Minnie de la Croix, at the age of seventeen, was no wiser than a child of ten. If she offended she was wretched until she had been forgiven, and as ready to pardon as she was averse to wound. Her life had been one of sunshine and love; but she was growing up to womanhood, and dreamed not of its perils and its pains—saw nothing but smiles and fair promises in the world before her.
Rose’s account of young Selby’s arrival in Paris was satisfactory to all parties. “He came to see us,” wrote she, “as soon as he arrived, taking time only, as I suppose, to make himself look remarkably handsome under a French valet’s hands. He greeted me most affectionately, and I verily believe would have kissed me upon slight encouragement. He gave me news of my dear home, of my dearest father and sisters; and if he had been as ugly as a Chinese, I should have thought him an Adonis. He tells me that you are all in perfect health, and describes my Minnie as something very lovely. Very bewitching, he said, and so very pretty. My resemblance to her seemed to delight him; but as I am neither of the two epithets bestowed upon her, I am afraid it will wear off. We were at the Opera last evening, and, of course, he joined us; but there was no time to talk when Jenny Lind was singing, and I could not have heard him if he had attempted it, I was so absorbed; but he had too much taste for such a mistake. We spend this evening at the American Minister’s, where I am to see a whole cage of French lions; and what is better, some of my own dear countrymen. I am delighted with the grace and ease of the Parisian ladies—it is impossible to resist their fascination of manner, the very lifting of their veils is a tableau in itself. Minnie’s numberless dresses for next winter I shall choose under the surveillance of one of our new acquaintances, one of the presiding goddesses of fashion, whose taste is so infallible, that, if she were to have her bonnet bent by accident, bent bonnets would suddenly become the rage.”
We cannot give all Rose’s letter, as it was a long one, but must hurry over her return, and bring her home in time for Minnie’s ball, as the whole house called it. The dear absentee arrived in the midst of the preparations, at the time appointed. Mr. de la Croix wished to celebrate her happy return among them with Minnie’s debut, and there was no end to the joy of the sisters as they all met together once more in the room wherein Rose’s boxes and trunks had been carried. Mr. Linden was there with a hammer, which he swung over their heads, as he called out where he was to begin, and the door opened to admit Mr. de la Croix, Kenneth, and Harry Selby’s uncle. Minnie had promised, he said, that he should choose her costume upon this great occasion, and here he was, to do his duty conscientiously.
He was gladly welcomed, and Paul fell to work ona largecaisse, according to Rose’s directions. The lid flew off and revealed a very mysterious covering of white paper, which they proceeded to remove, and Lisa’s nice hands were called upon to take out the beautiful dresses that lay so lightly one upon the other.
“Beautiful!” they cried, as a blue tarlatan of the most delicate shade was held up. “Exquisite! Who is this for?”
“For Lisa,” said Rose, displaying its beauties; “and I have the most unexceptionable bouquets of pink moss roses for the looping of the skirt, sleeves, and one for the bosom. Now that white dress is for Blanche—my Lady Blanche—and the two rose-colored for Minnie and myself. All have flowers to trim alike. You will find Kate’s in the other box—there was no room for it in this one.”
“Here is another white one,” said Minnie, who had danced around the room in a perfect glee. “Whose is it?”
“That is yours also, Minnie,” answered Rose, with an affectionate smile. “You will want more than one ball-dress, my little debutante. Then—here Paul! Paul! to your duty—open this box. Mr. Selby! you have something to do with this, sir.”
All eyes turned to him as he came forward with a queer smile from the window at which he and Mr. de la Croix sat looking on, and enjoying the scene of gayety and confusion that passed before them.
“What have I to do with boxes, my pretty Rose,” inquired he. “I sent for no coats or pantaloons?”
“But you sent for the contents of this box, Mr. Selby,” said she, nodding her head significantly. “What they are, I know not; but Harry asked me to let it come on with my baggage, as it was yours, and to be opened at Oakwood. So here it is, and asIhave some curiosity about it, I call upon this self-constituted carpenter to gratify it.”
Down went Paul’s hammer and chisel, and the nails gave way. More white paper—and many little tape-strings running across, busied Lisa’s fingers for some minutes. At length she drew out a dress so beautiful that even Mr. de la Croix came forward. It was of a most delicate texture, white, and embroidered around the skirt in palms of silver. Nothing could be more exquisite, and Lisa drew forth gloves and slippers to correspond. There was still a small box lying within, but as every one was exclaiming over the shining robe, she deferred taking it out until it was time.
“Now, Mr. Selby! Mr. Selby! what did you want with this dress? Tell us quickly—are you going to be married?”
“Not unless Minnie will have me, for it is hers,” said he, covering her with the lovely thing, and looking half ashamed as she uttered a scream of delight.
“I see a letter there for me—hush child! hush! don’t mention it, that’s a good girl—I’m quite rewarded by your pleasure; let us read Mr. Harry’s communication.” He broke the seal and began reading it aloud.
“My dear uncle, Madame de Rosiere went to the modiste’s with me, and chose these articles as you requested; being as perfect in taste and dress as she is in wit, it must be a gem, almost worthy of the fair creature for whom it is destined. (Hem! Harry is eloquent.) As I knew where Miss de la Croix hadherdresses made, Madame de R. went with me there, and arranged it all with the ingenuity of a Frenchwoman—that this was to be made and packed with the rest, though in a separate box, and sent to Mr. Bliss’s hotel, when I asked him to take charge of it according to your orders. It gave me the greatest pleasure to attend to your commission, I do assure you, and I must thank you for it. How I long to see your favorite in a costume that seems to my poor eyes, one that will robe her like an angel of light. (Hurrah for the boy! he is really a gone case.) In the small box you will find a—” here Mr. Selby muttered the rest to himself, and ended with “your affectionate nephew, etc.”
The old gentleman then took out of a satin case a fan so superior to any Minnie’s unpracticed eyes had ever seen, that her admiration knew no bounds. On the slender gold ring that passed through the handle was her name in full, and to a chain of fine workmanship was attached a ruby for her taper finger.
“Minnie is a spoiled child,” said her father, taking the costly bauble and examining the pretty painting upon it, an acquisition in itself. It represented a young girl in the first bloom of youth with her arm around the neck of a beautiful greyhound, that looked up wistfully in her face. The attitude was full of grace, not unlike Minnie’s own, and Rose smiled as she remarked that Mr. Selby had chosen an emblem of fidelity for her little sister’s study during ball-room scenes.
“More probably as an example,” said his uncle, with a meaning smile. “Harry can never be classed among that portion of his sex, ‘to one thing constant never,’ and he, in my humble opinion, would love to communicate some of the same spirit to others.” A sly glance at Minnie accompanied these last words; but she was examining her fan very closely, and did not perceive it. At length she went and laid her hand upon his arm, looking up at him with a grateful expression.
“You have been so very kind to me—so thoughtful of my enjoyment in the world, that I cannot thank you in words. Some of these days, like the mouse proved to the lion, I may find a way to serve you, but until then you must believe how deeply I feel all this attention. Now come and choose my costume for to-morrow night—shall I come out in all the splendor of my white and silver?”
“No, my dear,” said Mr. Selby, kindly. “You must be like Rose to-morrow, and wear the other when my sister gets my old-fashioned house in readiness for another party, where you will receive the guests as your own. Now let me kiss that soft cheek, and run away to my business in town.”
“And not see allmypresents, Mr. Selby!” exclaimed Rose. “They cannot equal yours, but I have some very choice specimens of porcelain, besides collars, capes, etc. Now look at this transparentlamp-shade, with the angels’ heads; and see these vases. Here is a coffee-cup for papa, one for Paul and Kenneth, with their initials, and here is an inkstand for my darling Kate.”
“And what is for Lisa and Blanche?” asked he, admiring each as she presented them.
“The lamp is for my industrious queen bee, Lisa, the vases for Blanche, and things innumerable for the rest. You do not care about seeing the ‘dry goods,’ I know, but wait until I show you some of my own work. I have embroidered three vests for my three pets—papa and ‘the brothers,’ besides a scarf for my friend, Mr. Selby.”
He was delighted at the idea of being remembered by her while in a distant land, and Rose was forced to send him away to get rid of his thanks.
They hurried over the rest of the unpacking, as many preparations were needed for the next day’s fête, and were soon running about from one room to the other, laughing and singing as in days gone by.
[Conclusion in our next.
THEODORA.
A BALLAD OF THE WOODS.
———
BY GEO. CANNING HILL.
———
With her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,And her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning’s richest glow,From a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,Burst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.Like a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,Crushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;And a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,As a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.Far within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,As the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;Every songster’s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,And throughout the wood’s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.Such a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,In my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb’ring there;’Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,And she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.Straight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen—’Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;Greenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,Save a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.On its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;In its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;Not a human face could ever have intruded on the calmThat was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.As she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;For the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:And the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o’er the rim,For a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.Coming nearer, then she spied it—this sweet mirror hidden there—All set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;And she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,And she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.Then she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,Thus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;Raven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,As she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.Bending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,She essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven’s cerulean slept;But she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fairThat was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.Throughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;Yet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:And she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,And she thought they peered from out a world beneath thewaters’ flow.Then a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,And a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;But yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,And Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face—Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.
With her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,And her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning’s richest glow,From a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,Burst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.Like a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,Crushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;And a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,As a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.Far within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,As the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;Every songster’s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,And throughout the wood’s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.Such a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,In my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb’ring there;’Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,And she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.Straight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen—’Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;Greenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,Save a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.On its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;In its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;Not a human face could ever have intruded on the calmThat was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.As she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;For the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:And the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o’er the rim,For a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.Coming nearer, then she spied it—this sweet mirror hidden there—All set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;And she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,And she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.Then she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,Thus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;Raven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,As she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.Bending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,She essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven’s cerulean slept;But she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fairThat was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.Throughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;Yet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:And she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,And she thought they peered from out a world beneath thewaters’ flow.Then a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,And a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;But yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,And Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face—Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.
With her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,
And her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning’s richest glow,
From a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,
Burst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.
Like a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,
Crushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;
And a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,
As a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.
Far within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,
As the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;
Every songster’s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,
And throughout the wood’s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.
Such a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,
In my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb’ring there;
’Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,
And she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.
Straight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen—
’Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;
Greenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,
Save a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.
On its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;
In its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;
Not a human face could ever have intruded on the calm
That was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.
As she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;
For the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:
And the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o’er the rim,
For a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.
Coming nearer, then she spied it—this sweet mirror hidden there—
All set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;
And she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,
And she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.
Then she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,
Thus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;
Raven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,
As she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.
Bending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,
She essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven’s cerulean slept;
But she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fair
That was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.
Throughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;
Yet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:
And she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,
And she thought they peered from out a world beneath thewaters’ flow.
Then a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,
And a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;
But yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,
And Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.
Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,
To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:
And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face—
Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.
PEDRO DE PADILH.
———
BY J. M. LEGARE.
———
(Continued from page 236.)
After the battle in which De Haye, the maître-de-camp was killed, and the Portuguese ran away to a man, leaving the French to maintain the honor of the day and their ultimate position on a hill near at hand, the Spanish army unbuckled their armor and sat down to stretch their limbs beside the fires at which their suppers were cooking; and if any one in camp lost appetite that evening, it was not because of the numberless gaping wounds witnessing to Heaven against him from the field behind. A mile or so above, a few scattered lights showed where the remnant of De Chaste’s army held ground, and awaited the morrow with little fear but much hunger, sending to perdition the viceroy and entire Portuguese nation the last thing before dropping to sleep: midway between these two rows of fires, was neither life nor light save such as a crescent moon gave, and as much as lingered in some poor wretch with more vitality than was best for him. In which middle space the Damon and Pythias of this story, Hilo and Carlo, prowled about, turning over the stiff carcasses in search of valuables, for nothing of convertible worth came amiss to the pair, whose personal property was staked nightly at dice. Occasionally an apparent corpse tossed about his arms and legs convulsively, or prayed in a husky whisper for a little water, for life and mercy’s sake a single draught; but in either case the Walloon, like a rough angel of mercy as he was, put an end to their anguish promptly, saying with a grin to Hilo—“You know it’s for his good I do it: if he drank any thing it might keep him alive till somebody who aint his friend comes round. It would be a heap harder to die after making up his mind he was to live again, wouldn’t it?”
To which Hilo replied with some contempt: the boy was ferocious, as has been elsewhere said, only on provocation—
“You’re fitter for a hangman than a soldier, serjeant.”
A truth Wolfang took for a compliment.
“Hey?” cried that cidevant free-captain suddenly, “here’s one of our officers, let’s turn him over. A hole in the back of his casque by Lucifer; it served him right for turning his back on the enemy.”
Hilo may have recognized the whereabouts sufficiently to make a tolerably fair guess before the other added:
“Oh—oh—the maître-de-camp, De Haye!” But if he did he held his peace, and assisted in ridding the dead cavalier of a few personals.
The Walloon was thick-skulled, but his long service in villany had increased his cunning as a matter of course, and a duller man than he, acquainted with Señor de Ladron’s peculiarities, might have jumped to a like conclusion.
“Bah! he wasn’t a coward after all. The arquebuse that sent this ball was behind him while he faced the Dons. The man you owe a grudge to had better keep awake, Hilo, my lad.”
“You’re a fool,” Hilo returned. “Hold your tongue. Do you wish to bring the Spaniards upon us with your noise?”
To which the other answered sullenly—“You talk as if I wasn’t more than your slave. You’d better mind what you’re about. I aint going to stand it always, even if—here now, what’s to be done with these papers?”
“What is that shining in your hand?”
“A locket, or something of the sort, he had in his breast. Hang it, you want every thing!”
“A locket!” cried his comrade quickly. “Give it here.” Which the other did unwillingly, and the other pocketed after holding it up to the light. Hilo’s mood up to this moment had been none of the sweetest, as the captain could testify, but some virtue existed in the appropriation which was quite irresistible.
“Come, old fellow,” he cried to the serjeant, in high good-humor, “I was rather sharp with you just now,wasn’t I? You know I’m quick and all that, and musn’t mind me. Here’s a handful of ducats for your locket, as you found it; I fancy the thing, and don’t grudge paying for it.”
A gift the captain took with a growl half of resentment, forhehad not found a charm for himself, and could not so easily forget an offense as his master.
It was wonderful what a dog to fetch and carry that uncouth animal was to Hilo; how he followed him about, drew dagger in his service, and exposed his life any time rather than suffer the latter to embark alone in a perilous venture, a thing his youthful friend was much given to. It would have been an unanswerable proof of the existence in all men of some good trait, some capacity to love a brother, for a worse rogue than the captain would be difficult to select. But, unhappily, this Netherlandish Damon had sounder, if less sentimental, reasons for sticking by his Pythias. Hilo, a wonderfully precocious youth, had fallen in with the honest captain some three or four years back, and dexterously turned to his personal advantage a comfortable sum brought over from Peru by the other. “I like the boy, he’s full of pluck. I’ll school him into the ways of the world, look ye,” the captain used to say, at the very time his protégé was scheming to possess his ingots.
“I knew his father in Peru very well, a man of money. He lent me a helping hand once, and I don’t mind turning about and lending the boy any thing I have,” he spoke later. And so, not because of the helping hand, as the captain wished understood—which, to be sure, was Carlo’s beginning in life, the elder De Ladron having taken him into temporary partnership in the matter of a forcedrepartimiéntowhich turned out golden—but because he had entire reliance in the magnitude of the senior’s estate, he made over to Hilo the bulk of his possessions, on conditions legally witnessed, of a fourfold return immediately on the other’s receiving his own. No doubt Hilo acted in good faith, less from inclination possibly than necessity, his money affairs having become rather intricate about that time, and there could be no question of the repayment of the full amount—the original was no trifle—at the season specified.
But when was that to arrive? A question Carlo asked himself with growing dissatisfaction not long after the last ducat had slipped through his debtor’s fingers. Hilo was in no hurry to marry the girl, and since signing the captain’s bond, had bestowed his affections elsewhere, as people say. A French countess, black-eyed and brisk, took his fancy much more than the blonde his betrothed, and during the stay of the French embassage at Madrid, the young gentleman was on good behavior—ostensibly at least. Of all her gallants none excited his jealousy so much as a cavalier who had accompanied the count unofficially, and stood high in his daughter’s favor.
Don Hilo’s way of removing an obstacle of this sort, was admirably illustrative of his sense of wrong, although sometimes, as in this instance, liable to miscarry. He first picked a quarrel with De Haye, and that gentleman refusing point-blank to fight so disreputable a party, was waylaid and killed by proxy in the person of Villenos, who was of much the same figure, and, as it chanced that night, similarly attired. The eclat of this mistake, added to the departure of the lady, took him to France, where information of De Haye’s joining the commandant induced him to enlist under the same knight’s pennon, in pursuance of his vengeful purpose, and the young blood-hound was of course nothing molified by the remonstrance of his enemy to De Chaste on shipboard, which Carlo repeated with some little exaggeration, to be expected from the mouth of so affectionate a friend.
The heavy, cunning, ex-free-captain was brow-beaten and domineered over by his former protégé in a truly surprising manner to one not in the secret. It was wonderful how much he bore, how assiduously followed at the heels of his junior when off duty, uneasy at losing sight of the latter. The truth was, the captain having gambled and squandered himself into poverty again, looked to the money to be derived from Hilo’s fortune for a means of reputable living, as he said.
“I was an honest soldier till I met that Hilo!” was his lament years after, while awaiting the hour of his execution. And it was the obduracy of the same young gentleman, aided by his own failure to win the heiress, which had reduced him to the necessity of relying upon Hilo’s attaining his twenty-fifth year and sole right of property; a fib, by the way, of the party interested, which the captain was by this time too near gone not to catch at with proverbial eagerness.
“If I can only keep him in sight,” he used to think fifty times a day with an oath, “until I get back my ducats, I’ll take pay for my dog’s life;” and atnights he would wake muttering the words and feeling the edge of his weapon, when Hilo would exclaim—“Can’t you leave off grinding your tusks in that savage fashion, you Dutch boar!”
The captain saw how a little misadventure in the shape of his dear young friend’s decease, might deprive him of all chance of restoration, and no mother could be more precious of her charge: Hilo might involve himself in difficulties and be slain in a brawl; it was this worthy soul’s chief business to guard against such a mishap, or extricate him when fairly in: or he might fly into an ungovernable rage and harm himself, or tempt the captain into doing so; so the latter eschewed all cause of contention, and humbled himself where humility became a necessity. For Carlo’s phlegmatic temperament was incapable of fear, and nothing would have gratified him more than a bout with the young gentleman—who, seeing his advantage, or from mere recklessness, tried his ability to bear and forbear to the utmost limit.
“Wait till I get my ducats back!” Wolfang consoled himself with muttering under his breath on such occasions, champing his jaws and keeping his fingers stalwortly from his dagger-hilt.
The pair were standing over the body of the maître-de-camp, Carlo with the papers in his hand taken from the breast of the dead lieutenant’s doublet, when Hilo cried:
“Hark! the camp is in motion yonder above. Come, Wolf, stir your clumsy legs before we are missed.”
And Wolfang trotting after his master thrust the crumpled missives into his own doublet—“It’s no use to throw away any thing in the dark,” he said; “I did a note of hand once so, and somebody else got the good of it; one of these days I’ll find time to spell it out”—where they remained many days, now and then taken out and returned, without much progress made in their elucidation, for the warlike captain was not much of a scholar, and found opportunity for only cursory examinations.
A destination very different was the captain’s pocket, it may be remarked, from that designed by the writer, Don Pedro, who, about the time Carlo pocketed the letters, was conversing with Señor Inique as to their efficiency in De Haye’s hands.
No man is absolutely penitent at the start; some fear for character, personal safety, or the like, is the prime mover, after which—it may be moments or years after—enters in a godly sorrow for sin committed. Sift your motives, exemplary reader, andsatisfy yourself for once, your conscience is not the tender prompter to your most virtuous deeds you imagine: something to the effect, what it, or the world, or the church, or your wife at home will think, has its due influence. Human nature is not to be taken to task on this account; we are all more selfish than we choose to admit even to ourselves, or there would be an end straightway of all murders, thefts and villanies great and small and of every kind; and there is so little native good in us it is best not to cavil at the source of any redeeming trait, whatever it may be.
So Don Augustino after ten years’ penitence of fear, made confession for the first time of the same; not with the best conclusion or purpose in view, it may be objected, but the honest knight’s expressions of opinion were scarcely adapted to producing a better feeling at the beginning. Sir Pedro thought as much himself when he reviewed the conversation, and his after arguments were such as the mild expression of his fine gray eyes lent effect to, a thing they very seldom did when his speech was pointed with sarcasm. The soldier was first molified, then thoroughly subdued, and in the end inclined to adopt the counsel of his ancient companion-in-arms, who now, as always, took the shortest available course to the doing away of a bad deed by substitution of a good. Not that all this ripening of virtue in the veteran sinner’s breast was much hastened by the knight’s eloquence; it was mainly by the inexplicably swift thaw after the ice has been broken through with throes of dissolution, and something the knight’s words may have done at the beginning to aid the breaking up, something at the end to temper the freshet. What he saw when he entered the inner cabin of Inique’s ship, of that blank face and imbecility, I have nothing to relate; let the door remain shut upon him as it was in Inique’s time, and all likeness and constraint of the unhappy inmate be left to the imagination.
Entire restitution of name and property on one side, and public avowal of his paternity on the other, was what the straight-forward adviser urged, and Inique consented ultimately to perform. Avowed penitence strangely humbled the misshapen pride of the man. Once he said:
“You were right, Padilh; I was a coward from first to last. I begin to perceive there are two sorts of courage, one infinitely superior to the other, and God alone knows how much braver than I this poor boy might have proved.”
The main obstacle now to be overcome was the will of the supposititious Hilo, whose rage at finding himself heir to nothing would be likely to exceed all bounds.
“It must be opened gently,” said the knight. “The boy has an ill name for violence, and some gain must be shown as an equivalent for so much pecuniary loss; which last, I fear, will be the chief occasion of regret with him.”
“I have some little property of my own remaining,” answered the other, “and would gladly relinquish it in his favor, but for the claims of my other child. As for me, I am sick of this world’s honors—”
“Pooh!” cried Padilh cheeringly, “is this your new-found bravery? Look how you retreat before the enemy, and hope to shelter yourself behind a wall with monks. And as for your blue-eyed daughter, have no concern at all, for by this time I am sure that motherless countess of mine would stand a siege rather than surrender her unconditionally: we have more than we want in property and less in children, so you and I can each satisfy the other’s need and our own pleasure, which will be stealing a march at the start.”
The man of care and crime was sensibly touched by this offer.
“Many thanks!” was all he said, but he took his associate by the hand with a grasp that would make you or I wince.
“I think with you; he must be appealed to indirectly at first, that his suspicions may not be awakened too soon,” Don Pedro said shortly after, in answer to Inique. “In the French camp is a gentleman whose honor is unquestionable, and who entertains such friendship for me, he would not hesitate to undertake the service. If you do not oppose the design, I will write him a short narrative of the events, leaving the manner and time of communication to his judgment to determine. Until his jealousy of your present purpose is overruled, we may scarcely hope to meet the wretched boy in person, and I can see no better way of gaining our end.”
“Let it be so, I oppose nothing honorable,” replied the maître-de-camp.
“I am not referring to my old scale of honor,” he added presently, with something like a blush. There is hope for the man, thought Padilh thereupon; which was true enough.
The knight wrote the letter in accordance with this agreement, a brief recapitulation of the events of Inique’s life and his own, many of which De Haye already knew, urging that cavalier to use his discretion in acquainting the false Hilo de Ladron with so much of the truth as would suffice to induce an interview, by assuring him of no harm being plotted against his person, but rather some gain intended. Which letter Don Pedro contrived to have placed in De Haye’s hands the night before the battle in which the latter fell by the arquebuse of the boy whose cause he had at heart; for very nearly the last thought of this generous fellow, forgetting the enmity of Hilo, and perhaps rather careless of his rivalry even when disencumbered of the Señorita Inique, was that, after the day’s work was over, he would play the ambassador to what purpose he might: but it was Capt. Carlo that returned to camp with the letter instead.
The gallant captain hurrying back with his gay companion, found preparations making for a night attack, which were, however, countermanded before the column began the descent. The men had had their fill of fighting for the day, and turned in again wondering and grumbling at the useless disturbance.Meanwhile the commandant and the viceroy were discoursing of what had best be done, in the former’s tent. Senhor de Torrevedros, after the battle, had arrived with about a thousand of his countrymen, and one fourth or so the number of cows.
“The viceroy has brought milk for his babies at last,” the French soldiers said sarcastically; and the officer on duty who announced the arrival to De Chaste, prefixed an epithet to the count’s title by no means delicate or complimentary.
“In the devil’s name, sir count,” the commander exclaimed, with a red spot in either sallow cheek, “do you fetch these cattle to mount your cuirassiers or feed our troops?”
“Neither, at present, Senhor Commander,” the unabashed viceroy replied; “for in neither way could they so much benefit you as in their present condition.”
“Speak your mind freely, we are friends here, sir count,” the commandant answered coldly.
“Our valor is too well known to be questioned—second only to that of the French nation,” the count said braggartly, lifting his plumed cap by way of salute; “and I bring you, Senhor Commander, what no man may cavil at, a thousand men brave as lions and pledged to fall in defense of their king’s honor.”
At which speech a sarcastic smile passed round the group of attentive officers.
“Bah!” cried one to his comrade, “the fellow’s talk sickens me. Let’s go to sleep again, there will be nothing but gabble to-night.” And the two strode away. “Stay,” whispered the more curious, “we must hear the end of this bull story.”
Regardless of all which the viceroy continued.
“Yet, sir, on the word of a knight, these long-horned cows you affect to despise are more to be relied on as allies than twice the number of men I bring.”
“Doubtless,” the veteran rejoined, stroking his grizzled beard.
“I understand your double meaning, Senhor de Chaste,” Torrevedros said, slightly disconcerted. “But had you been present at a former descent of the Spaniards, when we routed five hundred infantry by driving half the number of wild cows upon them, you would not scoff at my design.”
“What! prove ourselves boors, and go to battle behind a herd of cattle with goads for lances!” here broke in the commandant with great indignation. “By St. Dennis and the devil, sir count, sir viceroy, you make my old blood boil to hear you talk. And I tell you once for all before these gentlemen here present, whose scornful laughter, as you may see, is only restrained by their good-breeding, that your offer in no respect suits the style of warfare practiced by knights and Frenchmen, although it may serve the purpose of cowards and Portuguese.”
“Take care! sir commandant,” cried the governor threateningly, stung to anger; “take care what you say in the hearing of a knight of that nation.”
“I have said my say,” the sturdy soldier answered shortly, turning his back on the speaker and stalking into his tent, where the other followed him after some consideration.
There the two commanders conversed at length, and with rather more harmony than the beginning promised; for De Chaste was not apt to bear a grudge long, and the smooth Portuguese would have kissed the other’s shoes if no other way offered for saving his precious life and limbs. The former, apart from his chivalric prejudices, and weighing the proposal simply as an expediency, refused to permit the employment of the horned reinforcement.
“They might as readily be turned against our battalions,” he justly remarked, “as Philip of Macedon’s elephants were, in some battle I’ve forgotten the name of.”
The commandant probably meant Pyrrhus, but his vocation being arms, not letters, he need not be undervalued by recent graduates who know better. One thing was now clear, the French had only themselves to look to, since the long expected recruits of the viceroy turned out to be a herd of cows, and a night attack was secretly ordered, which recalled the captain and Hilo to camp, but which the return of the count and his expostulations caused to be abandoned.
“You can learn nothing of the force and real position of the enemy, what obstacles lie between, nor who can guide you,” urged the alarmed governor plausibly; “and as for my men, I know not one who will be bribed or forced into a position so perilous.” Which appeared so truthful that the fiery Frenchman, with as bad a grace as any of his subordinates, betook himself to bed again after personally making the round of the Portuguese camp. All these swore by all the saints to stand to their posts. They were terrible fellows, fire-eaters and the like, at their own showing; but the commander was scarce asleep when Torrevedros reappeared with a confused air and the information that the entire division had stolen off and dispersed. Where the French general consigned his allies need not be repeated to polite ears, and I think his confessor, if he had one, should by no means have ordered a severe penance for what he said under provocation so grievous. A council of the chief cavaliers was immediately called. Alas! the most chivalric of them all lay at the foot of the hill without a word to offer.
The count spoke first, and strongly advised retreat to a higher mountain, by which the approaches to the interior might be readily defended, and an abundance of ammunition and provisions could be carried there, with cannon enough to maintain the position.
“Rather let us throw ourselves into the fortress of Angra,” cried Duvick, “Where, with our handful of Frenchmen, we can defy the whole Spanish army, backed by every Portuguese in the Azores.”
This speech drew a murmur of assent from the council, but the viceroy answered with his usual treacherous suavity.
“There is nothing to fear from my countrymen on that score, Messires.”
“No, by the Mass!” cried half a dozen voices,with some sardonic laughter; and the count turned to the commandant again, biting his lip with suppressed rage.
“Do as you please, Senhor de Chaste,” he said, with as much calmness as he could assume. “You are all masters here, I perceive, but I warn you fairly beforehand, that the walls of Angra are no better than a nut-shell, and the cannon of the marquis will bring them down upon your hot heads in less than twelve hours. Moreover, the place can contain not more than two hundred soldiers, as Heaven is my witness.”
Which was as great a fib as ever knight told, but quite as excusable as many, you ladies, are in the habit of telling by proxy at all hours of the day and at your front doors. I cannot see, for my part, how the Count de Torrevedros could possibly have acted otherwise under the circumstances, which approached as nearly as any military predicament may a civil, the not at home of mesdames out of toilette. In short, the count had that same night sent the keys of Angra by a trusty messenger to the Marquis of Santa Cruz, with his complimentary offer of services; an errand which the astute ambassador acquitted himself of to admiration, by leaving out the count and assuming the credit: and at the same moment the viceroy was giving his disinterested advice, no less a personage than Don Augustino Inique was marching in with five hundred men through the wide-open gates of the fortress.
This the commandant learned by daybreak the next morning, at which early hour he was pushing for the mountains in accordance with the advice of Torrevedros, who had gone ahead, as people say taking French leave. At the village of Nostre Dame Dager de Loup, they heard further that the governor had put off in a boat from the coast; and the French army, debarred from the sea on one side and Angra on the other, and now openly deserted by the Portuguese, occupied the little town and began immediately to throw up intrenchments before the arrival of the Spaniards.
“We must not think longer how best to live, but most honorably to die,” De Chaste answered a few of his young officers who grumbled at the want of necessary stores. A fine, heroic answer, which stopped the mouths of those high-spirited gentlemen, but was less efficient in the case of the soldiery. It must be confessed the estimable pair Hilo and the serjeant were not a little responsible for this discontent; hard work agreed with neither of their constitutions, and before nightfall they had found opportunity to exchange their views on the subject.
“I’d as lief be a galley-slave and be done with it,” the serjeant muttered to Hilo, who was helping him lift a load of sand out of the ditch.
“Captain,” returned the other, “you speak my mind; and things are getting in such a state here the sooner we draw our necks out of the noose the better.”
“Good,” replied Carlo, “but how is that to be done, look you? The marquis will hang us up for spies if we go over to them, and the count they say has gone off in the last boat on this coast.”
“But what if most of these Frenchmen went out with us?”
“That alters the case,” cried the captain with his old grin.
And somewhere about midnight the commandant was roused by an uproar round the officers’ quarters, which shewed what willing soil the ringleaders had found to sow sedition in.
“Kill your captains! I’ll begin with mine,” the serjeant was roaring with a volley of oaths, and menacing Captain Curzon with his halbert. The fellow had found drink somewhere, and was raging like a worried bull, his prominent bloodshot eyes sustaining the resemblance.
Curzon parried the thrust and would have cut him down, when the voice of the commandant overtopped the clamor.
“What!” he exclaimed, “do you plot to follow our Portuguese allies! Go, every man of you who chooses; we want none but brave men here, and will bear with no others.”
“That may do for you to prate about, general mine,” answered Señor de Ladron scoffingly, the seditious talents of that young gentleman causing him to be chosen captain of the insurgents, “but it wont deceive men with their eyes open, hark ye! We all know you’re only waiting a chance to escape with your brave officers, and leave us to pull an oar apiece in the Spanish galleys. Ha, ha! M. de Chaste! Begone while you’re allowed, for you see you’re outwitted.”
“Insolent dog, to your quarters!” the knight cried, advancing upon the speaker and striking him with his sheathed sword.
But Hilo, instead of falling back, foaming with rage, seized a halbert with both hands, and was as promptly fastened on by a dozen embracing arms.
“No, by St. Dennis! the general shan’t be harmed!” as many more voices exclaimed. “Only we’ll be ahead of him and go first.”
“Friends,” answered De Chaste, with some indignation in his voice, “you hurt me more by your suspicions than if you ran a sword through my body; and I take Heaven to witness, I will be the last man to quit this island, and will die rather than abandon any of you to the mercy of the marquis, whose countrymen gave such instance of their treatment of the French last year in the Floridas. Let fifty or a hundred of you surround my house yonder, and insure my stay: it will be time enough to dishonor yourselves and nation when I set the example.”
Which the mutineers did for the present, despite the taunts of their leader-elect, who, struggling furiously with his captors, had all the while been calling to the others to fall upon the officers, or loose him and he would give them example. The commandant was a favorite with the troops.
“We will wait until to-morrow,” they agreed among themselves, “and general or no general, he is a dead man if he lifts a finger to betray us.”
Señor Hilo de Ladron, for his part, came to the conclusion, after this failure, that the French camp was no place for him, and communicated his views to his faithful Damon.
“I’d like to have split his head open, he hadn’t so much as a cap on to save it,” he said to Wolfang, “and then we might have done as we pleased with the rest. But, hang it, you’re such a liar, the men only half believed the story from the first, and letting him talk upset their resolution altogether. It’s his turn now, and we must get out of this hornet’s nest before daylight.”
“Where to go?” the captain asked.
“If you are born to be drowned, you can stay behind, you wont be safe otherwise,” Hilo answered indifferently. “I’m for the mountains at first, and who knows but I may find it to my interest in the end to visit the marquis with the count for sponsor.”
“Oh, if you keep such good company,” the captain returned, with a grotesque bow and grin showing his comprehension of Hilo’s plans, “I’m your excellency’s humble servant!” And in an hour’s time these fast friends had slipped through the line of sentries, scaled the breast-work, and sat down to wait for light a mile or two from camp.
The impossibility of hearing ordinary discourse at that distance will cause the finale of this story to be very different from what it might have been under more favorable circumstances. For a herald, or courier, or valet, had just then arrived from the camp of the marquis, at the intrenchments, bringing a letter to the Commandant de Chaste, who presently sent through the village to find Don Hilo, as we all know now, without success.
[To be continued.