CASTING A HAND FROM LIFE.CASTING A HAND FROM LIFE.(Studio of Mr. Onslow Ford, A.R.A.)
The sculptor's practice of casting in plaster the hands of his client is of comparatively recent growth. The artist of the old school—and he is followed in this by many of the new—disdained so mechanical a means to fidelity. Very few, indeed, among the British painters and sculptors of the past will be found who took the pains to see that the hands or even the figures of their counterfeit presentments on canvas or in marble tallied with the originals. Sir Joshua Reynolds, as we know, would have regarded this as the essence of finical vulgarity.
The principal drawback in making casts from life is to be found in the discomfort, not to speak of the actual torment, it often causes the sitter by the adhesion of the plaster to the hairy growth of the skin. Various methods are resorted to with a view to obviate this, and in some cases successfully.
The hands of Thomas Carlyle—stubborn, combative, mystical—which appear in the present paper, will amply repay the closest scrutiny. These hands are unwontedly realistic, and emphasize their distinctiveness in every vein and wrinkle. They appear to be themselves endowed with each of those various qualities which caused their possessor to be regarded as one of the most puissant figures in the century's literature. The hand is not one, to use Charles Lamb's expressive phrase, to be looked atstanding on one leg. It deserves a keener examination.
THOMAS CARLYLE'S HANDS.THOMAS CARLYLE'S HANDS.
Mention has been made of the hand of a distinguished prelate, Cardinal Manning.It will not be out of place to compare it with the hands of the late Archbishop of Canterbury, which were cast posthumously. Scarcely anything could be more antagonistic. The nervous personality of Manning is wanting here. The hands of the Archbishop seem more to belong to the order of the benevolent Bishop Myriel than to that of the enthusiast and ascetic.
THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY'S HANDS.THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY'S HANDS.
LORD PALMERSTON'S HAND.LORD PALMERSTON'S HAND.
Plenty of opportunity to study the hands of statesmen is afforded in those of Lord Palmerston, Count Cavour, Sir Stratford Canning, and Lord Melbourne. The fallacy of attaching special qualities to any distinctive trait in the hand of an eminent person is most readily discernible here. One should avoidà posteriorireasoning. It would be the same for a physiognomist to argue a man a statesman from a facial resemblance to Mr. Gladstone, or that he is fit to write tragedies because he owns the exact facial proportions of Sardou.
COUNT CAVOUR'S HANDS.COUNT CAVOUR'S HANDS.
SIR STRATFORD CANNING'S HANDS.SIR STRATFORD CANNING'S HANDS.
Among these the hand of Lord Palmerston will stand forth most prominently to the reader. Its characteristics are, on the whole, sufficiently obvious, in the appended cast, to be thought accentuated. It might not unprofitably be noted in connection with those of Stratford Canning, Viscount de Redcliffe (for fifty years British Ambassador in India), whose statue by Boehm, with Tennyson's famous epitaph:
Thou third great Canning, stand among our bestAnd noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased,Here, silent in our Minster of the West,Who wert the voice of England in the East!
Thou third great Canning, stand among our bestAnd noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased,Here, silent in our Minster of the West,Who wert the voice of England in the East!
is in a nave of the Abbey. With these should be joined the hand of Viscount Melbourne, the predecessor of Sir Robert Peel in the Premiership, and the great statesman after whom the city of Melbourne was named, in orderto range this British galaxy against the hands of the Italian patriots, Count Cavour and Joseph Garibaldi, whose labours resulted in that master stroke of latter-day politics, the unification of Italy. Those of the former were cast separately in different positions, it being the intention of the sculptor for the right hand to rest lightly upon a column and the left to grasp a roll of parchment. Garibaldi's hand may be described as both virile and nervous.
LORD MELBOURNE'S HAND.LORD MELBOURNE'S HAND.
HAND OF JOHN BURNS, M.P.HAND OF JOHN BURNS, M.P.
HAND OF JOSEPH ARCH, M.P.HAND OF JOSEPH ARCH, M.P.
GARIBALDI'S HAND.GARIBALDI'S HAND.
SIR E. BOEHM'S HAND.SIR E. BOEHM'S HAND.
HAND OF JOHN JACKSON, R.A.HAND OF JOHN JACKSON, R.A.
Another type of hand is exemplified in the hands of Messrs. Joseph Arch and John Burns. Both of these belong to self-made men, accustomed to hard manual labour from childhood. Their powerful ruggedness is admirably set off by the exquisite symmetry and feminine proportions of the hand of John Jackson a Royal Academician and great painter of his time. For symmetry, combined with grace, this hand is not surpassed.
The hand of Sir Edgar Boehm was cast by his assistant, Professor Lantéri, for the former's statue of Sir Francis Drake. It will be observedthat the fingers grasp a pair of compasses, the original of those which appear in the bronze at Plymouth.
LADY BLESSINGTON'S HAND.LADY BLESSINGTON'S HAND.
MRS. CARLYLE'S HAND.MRS. CARLYLE'S HAND.
MRS. THORNYCROFT'S HAND.MRS. THORNYCROFT'S HAND.
Reverting to the ladies again, interest will, no doubt, centre upon the hand of the celebrated Lady Blessington, accounted the wittiest hostess of her day; and not least attractive will appear Mrs. Carlyle's and those of Mrs. Thornycroft and the celebrated Madame Tussaud. The wife of the Chelsea sage was herself, as is known, an authoress of no mean repute.
A comparison of the hand of Mr. Bancroft with that of Mr. Irving, given last month, will prove interesting, if not instructive.
MME. TUSSAUD'S HAND.MME. TUSSAUD'S HAND.
It has been said that the hands of Carlyle are characteristic; that they possess, with those of Wilkie Collins, the merit of being precisely the sort of hands one would expectto see so labelled. We now present a third candidate for this merit of candour in casts of the hands of the notorious Arthur Orton, better known under the sobriquet of the Claimant. They are pulseless, chubby, oblique: yet they are remarkable. In scrutinizing them, it is difficult not to feel that one looks upon hands very remote indeed from the ordinary.
MR. BANCROFT'S HAND.MR. BANCROFT'S HAND.
HANDS OF THE TICHBORNE CLAIMANT.HANDS OF THE TICHBORNE CLAIMANT.
Next we look upon the hand of a giant even superior to Anak, in Loushkin, the Russian. But physically great as was the Muscovite, it is to be doubted if he really attained the world-wide celebrity of the little American, Charles Stratton (otherwise known as "Tom Thumb"), whose extremity serves as a foil to his rival for exhibition honours.
Another Boehm relic requires some explanation. Every visitor to the Metropolis has doubtless seen and admired the heroic equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, opposite Apsley House. They may even have noticed the right hand, which is represented as lightly holding the rein of the animal. The appended was cast from the original model in clay of the hand of the Duke, no cast direct from life ever having been executed.
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HAND.THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HAND.
It is sufficient to say that the subjoined hand and arm of Lady Cardigan, wife of the noted Crimean warrior, was one greatly admired by Sir Edgar, in whose studio it hung for many years. In like manner will the hand of Lady Richard Grosvenor be found the possessor of many beautiful and interesting traits.
THE HANDS OF "TOM THUMB" AND LOUSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN GIANT.THE HANDS OF "TOM THUMB" AND LOUSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN GIANT.
LADY CARDIGAN'S HAND.LADY CARDIGAN'S HAND.
A member not altogether dissimilar to that of the musician Liszt is the hand of Carl von Angeli, Court painter to Her Majesty, and like that also in setting at naught the conclusions too often arrived at by the chirognomist. For there is here breadth without symmetry, and an utter absence of the poise which we look for in the ideal hand of the artist. It is instructive to compare it to the hand of the painter, John Jackson.
LADY RICHARD GROSVENOR'S HAND.LADY RICHARD GROSVENOR'S HAND.
CARL ANGELI'S HAND.CARL ANGELI'S HAND.
Observe the massive, masculine fingers and disproportionately small finger-nails in the hands of Professor Weekes, the sculptor. There is scarcely any perceptible tapering at the third joint, and the fingers all exhibit very little prominence of knuckle or contour. It is anything but an artistic hand, and yet its owner was a man of the keenest artistic perceptions.
In Frederick Baring's (Lord Ashburton) we find the thick-set fingers, and what the chirognomist calls the "lack of manual repose," of the great financier. But as his lordship was statesman with a talent for debate as well as man of commerce, it will not unlikely be found that the hand presented combines the both temperaments.
PROFESSOR WEEKES' HANDS.PROFESSOR WEEKES' HANDS.
LORD ASHBURTON'S HAND.LORD ASHBURTON'S HAND.
I have been enabled, through the kindness of Mr. J. T. Tussaud, to embellish the present collection by an ancient cast of the hand of the Comtede Lorge, a famous prisoner in the Bastille. This cast was taken, together with a death mask, after death, by the great-grandmother of the sculptor, to whom both relics have descended.
The Queen's hands, which appeared in the last issue of this Magazine, were cast by John Francis, a famous sculptor of the day. Mr. Hamo Thorneycroft, R.A., writes me to say that "While the moulds were being made Her Majesty removed all the rings from her fingersexceptthe wedding ring. This she was most anxious should not come off, and was in considerable fear lest the moulding process might remove it."
COMTE DE LORGE'S HAND.COMTE DE LORGE'S HAND.
[The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are always on view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is open to the public without charge.]
It was harvest day at a house in the little village of Panola, in Castile, on the 25th of August, 1838. The great sheaves of corn had been borne, amidst universal rejoicing, to their resting-place in the granary. All the village inhabitants had shared in this pleasant task, and now, following an ancient custom, they had erected a trophy composed of a few last sheaves of corn, round which the young girls and men began to dance gaily, to the sound of guitars and castanets.
Within the house, in a room which overlooked this charming scene, were two men.
The first, seated at a table, was an old man over sixty, but enfeebled rather by cares than by age. His venerable head, crowned with white hair, drooped upon his breast with patriarchal dignity. The old man, who had been a soldier in the Spanish army, was Don Pedro de la Sarga, a Castilian as noble as he was poor. His companion was his son, Don Stephano, a young man of twenty, considered the most accomplished man in Panola. He was handsome; his warm, brown skin, his large, black eyes, the regular features, which wore that expression of national pride which distinguishes a Castilian from any other race, and his raven-black hair were eminently the Spanish type in all its grace and haughtiness. The young man wore the Spanish holiday costume, the richness of which has made travellers exclaim, more than once, that no European prince is clothed like a simple peasant of Castile. Stephano had on a short vest of black cloth, lined with yellow silk, ornamented with fringes and bunches of ribbons; an embroidered shirt with open collar revealing a waistcoat with gilt buttons, knee-breeches of black silk confined at the knees by bunches of ribbons, shoes and gaiters of fine brown leather, while a black felt hat with drooping plume completed his costume.
Stephano's gloomy face contrasted with his gay attire. He leant against the open window, carelessly holding in his hand a bouquet of faded jasmine, whilst he gazed with melancholy eyes upon the festive scene before him, and only by a shake of the head and a sad smile replied to the light badinage of the dancers as they passed the window. But now and then his eyes lighted up, and he sighed deeply as a certain dancer, prettier than the rest, approached him.
"How pretty she is!" he murmured, as he followed her retreating form.
"Stephano!" called out the old man, who had been watching his son for some time.
"How gracefully she dances," continued the handsome dreamer, wrapt in his thoughts.
"Stephano!" repeated the old man.
"Yes, father," cried Stephano, with a start, and coming forward. "Do you wish to speak to me?"
"From your mysterious air and endless sighs these last few days, Stephano, I conclude that you are in love," said his father.
"In love!" stammered the young man. "You think I am in love?"
"I do not think, my son—I am sure of it; and I have only one reproach to make to you, and that is that you have not made me a confidant of your secret before."
"You shall know all, father," said Stephano, drawing a chair close to Don Pedro.
"For the last month," he continued, "I have had in my heart a love which nothing can subdue, and the object of my passion is a young girl here, a glance from whose eyes is worth more to me than all the world besides; but she shuns my love, and on every occasion strives to avoid me. She hardly permits me to speak to her for fear that the passion she reads in my eyes will break into words."
"Bah!" said the old man, merrily; "it is very likely that she shuns you for the reason of your not opening your mouth; you scare the young girl with your morose airs."
"Oh, if that were only true," sighed the disconsolate swain.
"Now," said the old man, "there only remains for me to know the name of my future daughter-in-law."
The young man was about to pronounce the name which already trembled on his lips when a sudden clamour interrupted the most interesting portion of this conversation. The peasants, followed by the partners, were rushing towards the house, and in the twinkling of an eye the room was filled with the animated and noisy throng. The new-comers wore rich costumes, more or less copies of Stephano's; some carried guitars, others castanets, while most of them leaned upon tall peeled rods, forked at the top, and ornamented with ribbons of all colours; each carried on the left side of his vest a bouquet similar to that of Stephano. The young girls in their silken bodices, short skirts, red stockings and mantillas, rattled their castanets as they entered with their partners. The joyous crowd surrounded Don Pedro, whilst cries of "Rosita! Rosita!" resounded from all sides.
"Well, well, my children, what is it you want?" demanded the village Nestor of his clamorous audience.
"We want Mlle. Rosita," they repeated.
"What, my niece? But is she not with you? I thought it was she whom you were leading just now round the corn sheaves."
"That is true," replied one of the foremost of the crowd; "everything went smoothly until we wished her to take part in our usual ceremony of 'The Maiden's Choice.'"
"Did you explain to her," asked the old man, "what is the ceremony?"
"Yes, we told her all that was necessary: that it is an old custom in Panola on harvest day, after having escorted the daughter of the house round the last sheaves of corn, for all her admirers in the village to present her, each in his turn, with a bouquet; that she must then choose the one she loves amongst them by retaining his bouquet, whilst the others are rejected. She answered us by saying that she had only been in Panola a few months, and was therefore not forced to adopt our customs, and leaving us with these words she fled from us and escaped through the little granary door."
"The little shrew!" Don Pedro exclaimed, who, like an amiable old man, was always on the side of the young folk. "But my friends," he added, "you are but poor Lotharios to be flouted by a young girl; you must follow her and bring her back."
"That is just what we have done; but one cannot catch a bird without also having wings. She seemed to fly as we followed her, and on reaching the granary she entered and slammed the door in our faces; so we have come, as a last resource, to you, Don Pedro, to ask her to comply with our wishes."
"You are right," replied the old man, with all the gravity of a judge, "you must be satisfied at once"; and he looked round for Don Stephano, who was standing more moody than ever behind a giggling group of young peasants.
"My son," he said, "go and bring your cousin here. If she refuses, tell her that I particularly wish her to come."
"I will go, father," said Stephano, after a second's hesitation; and he went out.
There was a slight pause; then shouts andacclamations and rattling of castanets burst forth, as Rosita, with downcast eyes, entered the room, led by Stephano. Well might they welcome with fervour such a charming creature. Rosita was just eighteen. She wore upon her golden brown hair a black lace mantilla, which contrasted with her creamy complexion and the liquid depth of her large brown eyes. A brown velvet bodice showed off to perfection her slight yet rounded figure; and her silk skirts just revealed her pretty ankles and small feet in their silk stockings and neat shoes.
Rosita was a native of Navarre. She had quitted Tafalla, her native village, on the death of her father and mother, who had been victims of the Civil War which at this time desolated the country, and had been conducted not without peril to her uncle's house at Panola, in which she had since taken up her abode.
"Rosita," said Don Pedro to his niece, taking her hand, "I have made your apologies to your friends for the trick you have played them. It is your turn now to atone for your misdeed, by submitting to an old custom. Among the brave Castilians who surround you there are many suitors for your hand. There must be one among them whom you secretly favour. Your choice is entirely free, and even the favoured one after the ceremony will then have only the right to please you and to merit your hand."
"But, uncle——" faltered the young girl.
"I will take no denial, my dear," interrupted the old man.
Rosita strove in vain to protest, but her imperturbable uncle would not listen, and gave a sign to the peasants to begin the ceremony, in which he seemed to take as keen an interest as they did themselves. Thereupon the majority of the young men, darting furious glances of jealousy at one another, prepared for the contest. Rosita, at her uncle's side, stood at one end of the room. At her right and left were grouped the young peasant girls, admiring without envy the queen of thefête, and forming her court. Stephano stood behind with dejected mien. Those with guitars touched their instruments lightly now and then, and upon this scene, worthy of the pencil of Leopold Roberts, the sun, now setting at the horizon, cast a calm and solemn light.
The first peasant who came forward was a tall young man, with a ruddy complexion.
"My name is Geronimo Caldaroz, and I am twenty-five. It has been the talk of the village why I did not marry, and it has been said it was because I had never yet seen a maiden beautiful enough to please me. But now I have found her; it is you, Rosita. Will you accept my bouquet?" He presented his bouquet to the young girl, who blushed as she received it, and then let it fall.
"Refused! Refused!" whispered the spectators, whilst the young man disappeared into the crowd, and a second one took his place. But the same thing occurred, and with the same result. Soon the jasmine bouquets covered the ground round the young girl's feet. The rejected suitors multiplied so fast that they could no longer hide their discomfiture amongst the others. Restless and smiling, Don Pedro wondered why his niece was so severe, and the remaining suitors seemed to hesitate whether to advance into the lists or not. Then the last three timidly advanced one by one toward Rosita. The two first were not even heard to the end of their speech, and then all eyes were fixed with interest upon the last. Rosita let him finish his discourse, took his bouquet, which she scrutinized demurely, and then uttering a deep sigh let it fall upon the amorous trophy piled at her feet.
A murmur rose amongst the stupefied villagers. Don Pedro approached his niece.
"Well, my child," he said, "have you thought of what you have done?"
"Yes, uncle," Rosita replied. "Did you not tell me yourself that I was perfectly free?"
"Free to choose, without doubt; but not to send all your suitors away."
Rosita cast down her eyes and made no reply.
"Pardon me, father, but there still remains one," said Stephano, breaking the silence.
"Where is he?" everyone asked at once.
"Here he is."
Rosita trembled so violently that she was compelled to lean for support upon her uncle's arm, and Don Pedro, more astonished than anyone, rushed towards his son.
"What, Stephano?" he said joyfully. "It is your cousin whom——"
"Yes, father," replied the young man. "It is she whom I love."
In the midst of such general interest Stephano, pale with emotion, advanced towards his cousin.
"Rosita, I love you," he said, simply. "Will you keep this bouquet which I offer to you?"
The young man pronounced these words with a voice so sweet and expressive, and the gesture with which he offered the symbolicflower was so imploring and passionate, that a sympathetic thrill ran through the spectators, and tears bedimmed Don Pedro's eyes.
"'ROSITA, I LOVE YOU,' HE SAID.""'ROSITA, I LOVE YOU,' HE SAID."
Rosita, not less pale than her cousin, took the bouquet with a trembling hand, gazed upon it tenderly, then made a movement as if to throw it down, paused, and then at last, with head turned aside, let it fall.
"Santa Maria! He also!" cried the crowd, mournfully.
"Do not condemn me without hearing my justification," cried Rosita, turning to Don Pedro.
"Your justification?" repeated Stephano, with relief.
"Uncle," she said, after a pause, "there is a secret which I may have been wrong in concealing from you hitherto, but I must confide it to you alone."
"To me!" cried the astonished old man.
"I will come with you at once," and, seizing Rosita's hand, he led her away, making signs to the peasants as he did so to disperse.
Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadows were beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted only by the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carried along in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orange groves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars and castanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells.
When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lower hall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, and hurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone.
"One word, father," said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will she also become my wife?"
"You must forget Rosita," replied the old man. "You must tear from your heart even the remembrance of your love."
The young man abandoned himself to despair.
"I shall never forget her," he said, passionately. "My love for Rosita will only cease with my life."
And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.
For some weeks the inmates of Don Pedro's house were forced to remain prisoners, for rebel soldiers filled the neighbouring villages, and troops of guerillas were beingmustered to put them to flight. It was a morning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above the horizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops which rested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streets were as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them at intervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir.
Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and was now alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window which overlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon a wooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly.
The sound of a voice filling the air with song attracted his attention; it was singing the Moorish romance of "Adlemar and Adalifa," and to the quick perception of a Spanish ear was marked with a slight Ultramontaine accent, which Stephano discerned like a true Castilian. Without moving he listened to the song which awoke the echoes of the valley. The amorous words recalled to Stephano's mind the thought of Rosita, and he sighed deeply. Then he listened anew to the voice, which grew nearer and nearer, and in which, in spite of its strange accent, he seemed to hear an understrain of singular emotion. His conjectures were not long, however. A man enveloped in a large mantle peered in at the open window, and after throwing a rapid glance behind him leapt into the room. Stephano recoiled at the sight of such a strange visitor, and felt tempted to seize the man, whom he took at first for a robber. Then a troop of horsemen dashed past the house. The stranger gave a sigh of relief. Then for the first time he caught sight of Stephano.
"I must be careful," the soldier muttered, as he drew his cloak more carefully round him. "This Spaniard does not look over benevolent."
"Who can this man be?" thought Stephano, as he instinctively put his hand on his pistols; but on seeing the stranger advance towards him with a pleasant smile, he paused.
"Noble Castilian," said the stranger, "are you a man to oblige an enemy in peril, and who for a quarter of an hour wishes you no more harm than if you were his brother?"
Before replying, Stephano scrutinized his questioner. He saw before him a man of about twenty-eight, with a frank face and light hair and moustache. His accent, and the blue pantaloons which appeared under the brown mantle, proclaimed him a Frenchman.
"THE STRANGER.""THE STRANGER."
"No unarmed man is my enemy," replied Stephano, "and from the moment my roof was over your head you became my guest."
"Shake hands on it! You are a fine fellow," cried the soldier, holding out his hand. At the same time he drew aside his mantle, and Stephano recognised the uniform worn by the French volunteers of Don Carlos's army. "Now, if you have a drop of anything to drink handy, I will tell you in a few words what has brought me here."
Stephano opened the sideboard, and brought out a bottle and glasses. The soldier wiped his moustache as he began.
"You see before you," he said, with frank abruptness, "Charles Dulaurier, a soldier by birth and profession, lieutenant in the Grenadiers of His Majesty Charles V.—pardonme, Don Carlos. Being stationed some few miles from here, I asked for leave of absence this morning to join some troops which (pardon me) are going to make a raid upon this very village this morning. But, thanks to my foolhardiness in starting off alone, I soon found myself in the hands of guerillas. I escaped. They pursued me. But I, though alone in a strange country and unarmed, led them a nice dance for half an hour. I was just about to fall again into their hands when I came in sight of this house. I duped them by my ruse of pitching my voice in such a manner as to lead them to think I was beyond the village, whilst I at the same time took refuge here. To conclude, my worthy fellow, no doubt the guerillas are not blind, and not finding any trace of me upon the route, will return to Panola. Consequently, if you are a host to my liking you will——"
"Conceal you," said Stephano, quickly. "You are right!" and he glanced round with uneasiness. The lieutenant struck him on the shoulder. "One minute," he said; "the guerillas cannot reappear for half an hour. This little expedition, as you may imagine, was not my only motive for coming to Panola, and I must again abuse your patience in asking you some questions upon a certain subject which is the motive of my expedition."
"Go on," replied Stephano, with resignation.
"I came here to look for a young girl," said the Frenchman, twisting his moustache, "and as, perhaps, you will be so good as to give me some information on this point, it would be better for you to know the story. Last year my regiment, after a vigorous resistance, entered a village in Navarre."
"A village in Navarre?" repeated Stephano, and his brow darkened.
"One house had been so well defended, indeed, that it was found necessary to surround it, and our infuriated soldiers, drunk with carnage, determined to massacre everyone within. I luckily surprised them as they drew their sabres upon two poor old creatures and their young daughter. I threw myself between the victims and their butchers; the wretches turned upon me and I fell wounded by a bayonet thrust, but they were saved. The kind people who owed me their lives bore me to their house, and gave me every care. The young girl watched at my bedside for more than a fortnight. Briefly the beauty, the tenderness of the little girl, won my heart. Losing no time, I declared my passion. She whispered, blushing, that I might speak to her parents. As soon as I was well enough to walk, I hastened to the worthy old man, who, after the shock he had received, became mortally ill, and felt his end approach. I had no sooner asked him for his daughter's hand than he exclaimed, 'God be praised! I shall not now die without having recompensed our deliverer.' At the same time he took the young girl's hand and mine, and, after making us exchange rings, clasped them together. Then he stretched forth his trembling hands above our heads to bless us, whilst on our knees by the bedside we swore eternal fidelity to each other. Three days after the good man died, and the same day my regiment left for Castile. Seven months passed without my hearing any news from my betrothed, and it was only by chance I learned that on her mother's death she had quitted Navarre to take up her abode in her uncle's house at Panola.
"But what is the matter?" said the lieutenant, as Stephano rose hurriedly.
"I know enough," replied the young man in a hollow voice. "The village was Tafalla, and the young girl's name is Rosita."
"But what is there in that?" cried the lieutenant, who understood nothing of Stephano's emotion. "You know Rosita? She is here? You are silent. Heavens! Is she dead—or married?"
"No, no," replied Stephano, with an effort. "Rosita is here. No doubt she loves you and watches for your return with impatience."
"Where, then, shall I find my betrothed?"
Stephano was about to reply to this question when the tramp of horses was heard. It was the troop returning.
"Softly!" whispered Dulaurier as he crept towards the window. "Yes, these are my friends. Where will you hide me?"
Stephano regarded him with a savage gleam in his eyes and muttered to himself, "This man comes here to blast my happiness, and I must protect his life at the peril of my own."
"What am I to do?" repeated Dulaurier.
"Take this dagger," said Stephano, "put on your mantle and follow me." He unfastened a little door which opened upon a staircase which led into the garden, and descended, followed by Dulaurier. They stole along behind a thick hedge of hawthorn until they came to the trees of a little orchard, from which rose the roof of a ruined summer-house. On reaching this spotStephano installed the lieutenant so that he could watch both the road and the garden; then having arranged upon the course they should take, Stephano hastened back to the house.
"THEY STOLE ALONG.""THEY STOLE ALONG."
Don Pedro was in the lower hall, alone, when his son entered.
"I have a request to make to you," said the young man, clasping his father's hand convulsively. "I want you to let me start at once to join my brothers and to fight for Spain."
"Can you then leave your cousin?" said Don Pedro, sadly. "And you do not know——"
"I know more than you, father, more than Rosita herself about this affair," interrupted Stephano. "Is not Rosita betrothed to a French volunteer in Don Carlos's army, and is this not the secret she confided to you on harvest day?"
"It is true. But how have you discovered it?"
"From a man flying from the pursuit of guerillas; no other than the man himself, Lieutenant Charles Dulaurier!"
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the stupefied old man.
"You see, father, that it is absolutely necessary for me to go," cried Stephano. "I cannot wait until Rosita and Dulaurier are united. Their happiness would be more than I could bear, and I have thought of a plan by which the lieutenant can be saved without putting off my departure. I shall join the troop of guerillas who are seeking Dulaurier in the village. Seeing me become one of themselves their suspicions will be lulled, and I shall save my rival by departing with his enemies."
"You are right," replied his father, after a painful pause, but he could not utter a word more.
The young man proceeded to take down from the wall his pistols and his gun; he placed the former in his belt and the latter on his shoulder, took his hat and stepped forward to bid his father farewell. But as he threw himself into the arms of the weeping old man, the door opened and Rosita entered.
The young girl glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her eyes remained fixed on Stephano.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, examining his equipment.
"I am going away," replied Stephano. "Farewell, Rosita, be happy. Farewell, father," he added, embracing Don Pedro.
"He is going," said Rosita, her eyes dim with tears, "without one friendly smile, without one clasp of his hand. Oh! Stephano," she exclaimed, springing forward. "You cannot part from me thus!"
"You are keeping me!" said the bewildered young man.
"Yes," she replied, seizing his hand. "Stay, Stephano, do not go. I implore you!"
"Remain!" cried the young man, passionately. "Remain to see you in the arms of another? Never!"
As he moved towards the door, Rosita sprang towards him with outstretched arms. "And what if it is you whom I love, Stephano? What if I have never loved anyone but you?" A thunderbolt would hardly have produced more effect than did these words.
"You love me?" he repeated, approaching his cousin. "Rosita, for mercy's sake, repeat those words once more, so that I may be sure of having heard aright."
"Yes, I love you," repeated the young girl, tenderly; "no one but you! Will you stay now?"
"For ever, if you wish it!" cried the enraptured youth, throwing down his gun and pistols. "Look at me, Rosita, that I may read in your eyes that word which gives me life, and which I have waited for so long. How blind and foolish I have been! But that will be all right now, will it not, my beloved?" As he spoke he embraced her passionately. By both of them the world was forgotten.
Through the open window came the clink of spurs and rattling of sabres. This sound, to which Stephano and Rosita were deaf, struck on the ear of Don Pedro and paralyzed him with terror.
"Stephano!" he cried at last. "Remember Lieutenant Dulaurier!"
"REMEMBER LIEUTENANT DULAURIER!""REMEMBER LIEUTENANT DULAURIER!"
"Ah!" groaned Stephano, rudely torn from his ecstasy of happiness; and he fixed his gaze upon his cousin.
The girl had not even heard Don Pedro.
"Rosita," said her lover, "you say you love me, but you have afiancé!"
"Dulaurier!" cried the startled girl. "Great Heaven! pardon me, I had forgotten."
"If this man," continued Stephano, "came here to claim your promise, you would reply, would you not, that friendship alone, not love, had drawn you towards him, and that your hand, promised when you hardly knew what you did, would now be given without your heart?"
"Yes, that is what I should answer; but he is not likely to come here, Stephano."
"And what if he were here already?" asked an impressive voice.
Don Pedro at the same time stepped forward between the young people, and before the severe face of the Spaniard their eyes drooped.
"Father!" faltered the young man.
"Silence!" cried the old man. "Yourduty is clear. What if Dulaurier were in the house, Rosita—what if, more faithful than you, he had come to claim his promise, made at the death-bed of your father? I ask you what you would answer."
Trembling and submissive as a criminal before his judge, the young girl turned her eyes from Stephano to Don Pedro.
"I should reply to Lieutenant Dulaurier that, before God and man, I am his betrothed bride, and that while he lives no other can be my husband."
"Come then, my child, prepare to receive yourfiancé," and Don Pedro held out his hand to his niece to lead her away.
"You are destroying my happiness!" cried Stephano.
"But in return I give you back your honour," replied Don Pedro. "Look after the lieutenant, for here come the guerillas!" and he went out.
"What a dream, and what an awakening!" murmured Stephano as he was left alone. "Rosita vows she loves me, and at the same time declares she will never be mine while Dulaurier lives.While he lives!And I must take upon myself the peril of saving him, when I have only to let him——Oh, how despair tempts us to horrible deeds! Is there time to fly, to quit this spot where each thought is torture: to hasten and join the guerillas before they enter the house? For, alas! if they enter now and demand where their enemy is—by Heaven! I shall not have the strength to resist—I must fly!"
Picking up his gun and pistols he rushed towards the door, but recoiled at the sight of a man in the uniform of a captain of guerillas, who by a gesture forced him to pause.