"Lock the doors, Oly-koeks! Hear the songsters, Mynheer Ten

Breecheses! Birds of prey, you Dutch varlet! What do you think of the

mistress of the manor? The serenading anti-renters have come for her."

Then he repeated more slowly: "The squaw Pewasch! For seventeen and

one-half ells of duffels! A rare principality for the scornful minx!

Lord! how the birds sing now around the manor--screech owls,

cat-birds, bobolinks!"

The soldier started back, vivid memories assailing his mind. Who was

this man whose brain, independent of the corporeal shell, played

waywardly with scenes, characters and events, indissolubly associated

with his own life?

"Do you know, Little Thunder, the Lord only rebuked the Pharisees?"

continued the prostrate man. "Though the Pharisee triumphs after all!

But it was the stroller I wanted, not the principality."

He stirred quickly, as if suddenly aware of the presence of another in

the hut, and, turning, lifted his head in a startled manner, surveying

the figure near the doorway with conflicting emotions written on his

pallid countenance. Perhaps some fragment of a dream yet lingered in

his brain; perhaps he was confused at the sight of a face that met his

excited look with one of doubt and bewilderment, but only partial

realization of the identity of the intruder came to him in his fevered

condition.

Arising deliberately, his body, like a machine, obeying automatically

some unconscious power, he confronted the officer, who recognized in

him, despite his thin, worn face and eyes, unnaturally bright, the

once pretentious land baron, Edward Mauville. Moving toward the door,

gazing on Saint-Prosper as though he was one of the figures of a

disturbing phantasm, he reached the threshold, and, lifting his hand

above his head, the prisoner placed it against one of the supports of

the hut and stood leaning there. From the creation of his mind's eye,

as he doubtlessly, half-conscious of his weakness, designated the

familiar form, he glanced at the sentinel and shook as though

abruptly conscious of his situation. Across the valley the soldiers

showed signs of bestirring themselves, the smoke of many fires

hovering earthward beneath the mist. Drawing his thin frame proudly to

its full height, with a gesture of disdain for physical weakness, and

setting his keen, wild eyes upon the soldier, Mauville said in a

hollow tone:

"Is that really you, Mr. Saint-Prosper? At first I thought you but a

trick of the imagination. Well, look your fill upon me! You are my

Nemesis come to see the end."

"I am here by chance, Edward Mauville; an officer in the American

army!"

"And I, a spy in the Mexican army. So are we authorized foes."

Rubbing his trembling hands together, his eyes shifted from the dark

birds to the mists, then from the phantom forests back to the hut,

finally resting on his shabby boots of yellow leather. The sunlight

penetrating a rift in the mist settled upon him as he moved feebly and

uncertainly through the doorway and seated himself upon a stool. This

sudden glow brought into relief his ragged, unkempt condition, the

sallowness of his face, and his wasted form, and Saint-Prosper could

not but contrast pityingly this cheerless object, in the garb of a

ranchero, with the prepossessing, sportive heir who had driven through

the Shadengo Valley.

Apparently now the sun was grateful to his bent, stricken figure,

and, basking in it, he recalled his distress of the previous night:

"This is better. Not long ago I awoke with chattering teeth. 'This,' I

said, 'is life; a miasma, cold, discomfort,' Yes, yes; a fever, a

miasma, with phantoms fighting you--struggling to choke you--but

now"--he paused, and fumbling in his pocket, drew out a cigarette

case, which he opened, but found empty. A cigar the other handed him

he took mechanically and lighted with scrupulous care. Near at hand

the guard, more cheerful under the prospect of speedy relief from his

duties, could be heard humming to himself:

"Oh, Teady-foley, you are my darling,

You are my looking-glass night and morning--"

Watching the smoker, Saint-Prosper asked himself how came Mauville to

be serving against his own country, or why he should have enlisted at

all, this pleasure-seeking man of the world, to whom the hardships of

a campaign must have been as novel as distasteful.

"Are you satisfied with your trial?" said the soldier at length.

"Yes," returned Mauville, as if breaking from a reverie. "I confess I

am the secret agent of Santa Anna and would have carried information

from your lines. I am here because there is more of the Latin than the

Anglo-Saxon in me. Many of the old families"--with a touch of insane

pride--"did not regard the purchase of Louisiana by the United States

as a transaction alienating them from other ties. Fealty is not a

commercial commodity. But this," he added, scornfully, "is something

you can not understand. You soldiers of fortune draw your swords for

any master who pays you."

The wind moaned down the mountain side, and the slender trees swayed

and bent; only the heavy and ponderous cactus remained motionless, a

formidable monarch receiving obeisance from supple courtiers. Like

cymbals, the leaves clashed around this armament of power with its

thousand spears out-thrust in all directions.

The ash fell from the cigar as Mauville held the weed before his

eyes.

"It is an hour-glass," he muttered. "When smoked--Oh, for the power of

Jupiter to order four nights in one, the better to pursue his love

follies! Love follies," he repeated, and, as a new train of fancy was

awakened, he regarded Saint-Prosper venomously.

"Do you know she is the daughter of a marquis?" said Mauville,

suddenly.

"Who?" asked the soldier.

"The stroller, of course. You can never win her," he added,

contemptuously. "She knows all about that African affair."

Saint-Prosper started violently, but in a moment Mauville's

expression changed, and he appeared plunged in thought.

"The last time I saw her," he said, half to himself, "she was dressed

in black--her face as noonday--her hair black as midnight--crowning

her with languorous allurement!"

He repeated the last word several times like a man in a dream.

"Allurement! allurement!" and again relapsed into a silence that was

half-stupor.

By this time the valley, with the growing of the day, began to lose

much of its evil aspect, and the eye, tempted through glades and

vistas, lingered upon gorgeous forms of inflorescence. The land

baron slowly blew a wreath of smoke in the air--a circle, mute

reminder of eternity!--and threw the end of the cigar into the

bushes. Looking long and earnestly at the surrounding scene, he

started involuntarily. "The dark valley--whar de mists am risin'--I

see yo' da, honey--fo'ebber and fo'ebber--"

As he surveyed this prospect, with these words ringing in his ears,

the brief silence was broken by a bugle call and the trampling of

feet.

"The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall arise," said the prisoner,

turning and facing the soldiers calmly. "You have come for me?" he

asked, quietly.

"Yes," said the officer in command. "General Scott has granted your

request in view of certain circumstances, and you will be shot,

instead of hanged."

The face of the prisoner lighted wonderfully. He drew himself erect

and smiled with some of the assumption of the old insolence, that

expression Saint-Prosper so well remembered! His features took on a

semblance to the careless, dashing look they had borne when the

soldier crossed weapons with him at the Oaks, and he neither asked nor

intended to give quarter.

"I thank you," he observed, courteously. "At least, I shall die like a

gentleman. I am ready, sir! Do not fasten my hands. A Mauville can die

without being tied or bound."

The officer hesitated: "As to that--" he began.

"It is a reasonable request," said Saint-Prosper, in a low tone.

Mauville abruptly wheeled; his face, dark and sinister, was lighted

with envenomed malignity; an unnaturally clear perception replaced the

stupor of his brain, and, bending toward Saint-Prosper, his eye rested

upon him with such rancor and malevolence the soldier involuntarily

drew away. But one word fell from the land baron's lips, low,

vibrating, full of inexpressible bitterness. "Traitor!"

"Come, come!" interrupted the officer in command of the execution

party; "time is up. As I was told not to fasten your hands, you shall

have your wish. Confess now, that is accommodating?"

"Thanks," returned Mauville carelessly, relapsing into his old manner.

"You are an obliging fellow! I would do as much for you."

"Not much danger of that," growled the other. "But we'll take the will

for the deed. Forward, march!"

* * * * *

After the reverberations, carried from rock to rock with menacing

reiteration, had ceased, the stillness was absolute. Even the

song-bird remained frightened into silence by those awful echoes. Then

the sun rested like a benediction on the land and the white cross of

Cortez was distinctly outlined against the blue sky. But soon the long

roll of drums followed this interval of quiet.

"Fall in!" "Attention; shoulder arms!" And the sleeping spirit of the

Aztec war-god floated in the murmur which, increasing in volume, arose

to tumultuous shout.

"On to Chapultepec! On to Chapultepec!" came from a thousand

throats; arms glistened in the sun, bugles sounded resonant in the

air, and the pattering noise of horses' hoofs mingled with the

stentorian voices of the rough teamsters and the cracking of the

whips. Like an irresistible, all-compelling wave, the troops swept out

of the valley to hurl themselves against castle and fortress and to

plant their colors in the heart of the capital city.

CHAPTER VII

A MEETING ON THE MOUNT

Clothed at its base in a misty raiment of purple, the royal hill

lifted above the valley an Olympian crest of porphyritic rock into the

fathomless blue. Here not Jupiter and his court looked serenely down

upon the struggling race, "indifferent from their awful height," but a

dark-hued god, in Aztec vestments, gazed beyond the meadows to the

floating flower beds, the gardens with their baths, and the sensuous

dancing girls. All this, but a panorama between naps, soon faded away;

the god yawned, drew his cloak of humming bird feathers more closely

about him and sank back to rest. An uproar then disturbed his

paleozoic dreams; like fluttering spirits of the garish past, the

butterflies arose in the forest glades; and the voices of old seemed

to chant the Aztec psalm: "The horrors of the tomb are but the cradle

of the sun, and the dark shadows of death the brilliant lights for the

stars." Even so they had chanted when the early free-booters burst

upon the scene and beheld the valley with its frame-work of mountains

and two guardian volcanoes, the Gog and Magog of the table-land.

Now again, from the towering column of Montezuma's cypress, to the

city marked by spires, the thunder rolled and echoed onward even to

the pine-clad cliffs and snow-crowned summits of the rocky giants.

Puffs of smoke dotted the valley beneath the mount, and, as the

answering reports reverberated across space, nature's mortars in the

inclosure of mountains sent forth threatening wreaths of white in

sympathy with the eight-inch howitzers and sixteen-pounders turned

upon the crest of the royal hill.

When the trees were yet wet with their bath of dew the booming of

artillery and the clattering of small arms dispelled that peace which

partook of no harsher discord than the purling of streams and the

still, small voices of the forest. Through the groves where the

spirit of Donna Marina--the lost love of the marauder--was said to

wander, shrieked the round shot, shells and grape. Through tangled

shrubberies, bright with flowers and colored berries, pierced the

discharge of canister; the air, fragrant at the dawn with orange

blossom and starry jessamine, was noisome with suffocating,

sulphurous fumes, and, beneath the fetid shroud, figures in a fog

heedlessly trampled the lilies, the red roses and "flowers of the

heart."

From the castle on the summit--mortal trespass upon the immortal pale

of the gods!--the upward shower was answered by an iron downpour, and

two storming parties, with ladders, pick-axes and crows, advanced,

one on each side of the hill, to the attack. Boom! boom! before one of

the parties, climbing and scrambling to the peak, belched the iron

missives of destruction from the concealed mouths of heavy guns,

followed by the rattling shower from small arms.

Surprised, they paused, panting from the swift ascent, some throwing

themselves prone upon the earth, while the grape and canister passed

harmlessly over them, others seeking such shelter as rocks, trees and

shrubs afforded. Here and there a man fell, but was not suffered to

lie long exposed to the fire of the redoubt which, strongly manned,

held them in check midway to the summit. Doggedly their comrades

rescued the wounded and quickly conveyed them to the rear.

"They've set out their watch-dogs," remarked the general commanding

the assault on that side of the hill, to one of his officers, as he

critically surveyed the formidable defense through the tangled

shrubbery. "Here is a battery we hadn't reckoned on."

"It was to be expected, sir," responded the officer. "They were sure

to have some strong point we couldn't locate."

"Yes," grumbled the general; "in such a jumble of foliage and

rocks it would take an eagle's eye to pick out all their miserable

ambuscades."

"I have no doubt, sir, the men are rested now," ventured the other.

"No doubt they are," chuckled the general, still studying the

situation, glancing to the right and the left of the redoubt. "The

more fighting they get the more they want. They are not so band-boxy

as they were, but remind me of an old, mongrel dog I once owned. He

wasn't much to look at--but I'll tell you the story later." A sudden

quick decision appearing on his face. Evidently the working of his

mind had been foreign to his words.

"Saint-Prosper," he said, "I suppose the boys on the other side are

going up all the time? I promised our troops the honor of pulling down

that flag. I'm a man of my word; go ahead and take the batteries

and"--stroking his long gray goatee--"beat Pillow to the top."

A word; a command; they rushed forward; not a laggard in the ranks;

not a man who shirked the leaden shower; not one who failed to offer

his breast openly and fearlessly to the red death which to them might

come when it would. Unwaveringly over rocks, chasms and mines, they

followed the tall figure of their leader; death underfoot, death

overhead! What would courage avail against concealed mines? Yet like a

pack of hounds that reck naught while the scent is warm, they pressed

forward, ever forward; across the level opening, where some dropped

out of the race, and over the ramparts! A brief struggle; confusion,

turmoil; something fearful occurring that no eye could see in its

entirety through the smoke; afterwards, a great shout that announced

to the palace on the mount the fate of the intermediary batteries!

But there was sharper and more arduous work to come; this, merely a

foretaste of the last, fierce stand of the besieged; a stand in which

they knew they were fighting for everything, where defeat meant the

second conquest of Mexico! From the batteries the assailants had

captured to the foot of the castle seemed but a little way to them in

their zeal; no one thought of weariness, or the toil of the ascent.

But one determination possessed them--to end it all quickly; to carry

everything before them! Their victory at the redoubt gave them such

sudden, wild confidence that castles seemed no more than ant-hills--to

be trampled on! Instinctively every man felt sure of the day and

already experienced the glory of conquering that historic hill; that

invincible fortress! Over the great valley, so beautiful in its

physical features, so inspiring in its associations, should hang the

stars of the North, with the stars of heaven!

The scaling ladders were brought up and planted by the storming party;

the first to mount were hurled back, killed or wounded, to the rocks

below, but others took their places; a lodgment was effected, and,

like the water bursting over a dike, a tide of besiegers found

ingress.

Under a galling fire, with shouts that rang above the noise of rifles,

they drove the masses of the enemy from their guns; all save one, not

a Mexican from his fair skin, who stood confidently beside his piece,

an ancient machine, made of copper and strengthened by bands of iron.

A handsome face; dead to morality, alive to pleasure; the face of a

man past thirty, the expression of immortal one-and-twenty! A figure

from the pages of Ovid, metamorphosed to a gunner of Santa Anna! The

bright radiance from a cloudless sky, the smoke having drifted

westward from the summit, fell upon him and his gun.

With inscrutable calmness, one hand fondling the breech, he regarded

the fleeting figures and the hoarse-throated pursuers; then, as if to

time the opportunity to the moment, he bent over the gun.

"I wonder if this first-born can still bark!" he muttered.

But an instant's hesitation, friend and foe being fairly intermingled,

was fatal to his purpose; the venerable culverin remained silent, and

the gunner met hand-to-hand a figure that sprang from the incoming

host. Simultaneously the rapid firing of a new wave of besiegers from

the other side of the castle threw once more a pall of smoke over the

scene, and, beneath its mantle, the two men were like figures

struggling in a fog, feeling rather than seeing each other's blade,

divining by touch the cut, pass or aggressive thrust.

"Faugh!" laughed the gunner. "They'll kill us with smoke."

The discharge of small arms gradually ceased; the fresh breeze again

cleared the crest of the mount, showing the white walls of the

structure which had been so obstinately defended; the valley, where

the batteries now lay silent, having spoken their thundering prologue,

and the alien flag, the regimental colors of the invaders, floating

from the upper walls. Below on the road toward the city, a band of

white across the table land, successive spots of smoke momentarily

appeared and were succeeded, after a considerable interval, by the

rub-a-dub of rifles. From the disenchanting distance the charge of a

body of men, in the attempt to dislodge a party entrenched in a ditch,

lost the tragic aspect of warfare, and the soldiers who fell seemed no

larger than the toy figures of a nursery game.

With the brightening of the summit to the light of day, eagerly the

two combatants near the copper gun gazed for the first time into each

other's eyes, and, at that trenchant glance, a tremor crossed the

features of the gunner, and his arm, with its muscles of steel,

suddenly became inert, powerless.

"_Mon Dieu!_--'Tis Ernest--little Ernest!" he exclaimed, wonderingly.

For all that his opponent's sword, ominously red from the fierce first

assault at the wall, was at his breast, he made no effort to oppose

its threatening point, when a grape-shot, swifter than the blade,

fairly struck the gunner. With blood streaming from his shoulder, he

swayed from side to side, passing his hand before his eyes as one who

questions oracular evidence, and then sank to the earth with an arm

thrown over the tube of copper. Above his bronzed face the light curls

waved like those of a Viking; though his clothes were dyed with the

sanguinary hue and his chest rose and fell with labored breathing, it

was with an almost quizzical glance he regarded the other who stood as

if turned to stone.

"That was not so easily done, Ernest," he said, not unkindly, "but

surprise broke down my guard."

"Before God, it was not I!" cried the soldier, starting from a

trance.

"And if it were!" With his free arm he felt his shoulder. "I believe

you are right," he observed, coolly. "Swords break no bones."

"I will get a surgeon," said the other, as he turned.

"What for? To shake his head? Get no one, or if--for boyish days!--you

want to serve me, lend me your canteen."

Saint-Prosper held it to his lips, and he drank thirstily.

"That was a draught in an oasis. I had the desert in my throat--the

desert, the wild desert! What a place to meet! But they caught

Abd-el-Kader, and there was nothing for it but to flee! Besides, I am

a rolling stone."

To hear him who had betrayed his country and shed the blood of his

comrades, characterize himself by no harsher term was an amazing

revelation of the man's character.

The space around them had become almost deserted; here and there lay

figures on the ground among which might be distinguished a

sub-lieutenant and other students of the military college, the castle

having been both academy and garrison. Their tuition barely over, so

early had they given up their lives beneath the classic walls of their

_alma mater_! The exhilarating cheering and shouting had subsided; the

sad after-flavor succeeded the lust of conquest.

"Yes," continued the gunner, though the words came with an effort.

"First, it was the desert. What a place to roll and rove! I couldn't

help it for the life of me! When I was a boy I ran away from school; a

lad, I ran away from college! If I had been a sailor I would have

deserted the ship. After they captured the prophet, I deserted the

desert. So, hey for Mexico, a hilly place for a rolling stone!"

He gasped, held his hand to his shoulder and brought it away covered

with red. But that Saint-Prosper knelt swiftly, sustaining and

supporting him, he would have slid to the ground. He smiled--sweetly

enough--on the stern soldier and placed his moist and stained hand

caressingly on that of his companion. Seeing them thus, it was not

difficult to trace a family likeness--a similarity in their very

dissimilarity. The older was younger; the younger, older. The gunner's

hair was light, his face wild as a gerfalcon beneath; the other's

dark, with a countenance, habitually repressed, but now, at the touch

of that dishonored hand, grown cold and harsh; yet despite the total

difference of expression, the hereditary resemblance could not be

stamped out. Even the smile of the wounded man was singularly like

that of his brother--a rare transformation that seldom failed to

charm.

"That's my story," he said, smiling now, as though all the problems of

life and death could be thus dismissed. "As the prophet said: 'I have

urged my camel through every desert!' You see I know my Koran well.

But how came you here, Ernest? I thought you were in Africa,

colonizing--us!"

"It was impossible to stay there long," replied Saint-Prosper,

slowly.

"There's that cloud of smoke again," muttered the wounded man,

apparently oblivious to the other's response. As he spoke he withdrew

his hand from that of his brother. At that moment the tropic sun was

bathing him in its light and the white walls shone with luster. "No;

it's like the desert; the dark hour before the sand-storm." Upon his

brow the perspiration gathered, but his lip curled half-scornfully,

half-defiantly. "Turn me toward the valley, Ernest. There's more

space; more light!"

The soldier, an automaton in passive compliance, placed him where he

commanded the outlook cityward; the open plain, protected by the

breast-works of mountains; the distant spires trembling on the

horizon; the lakes which once marked the Western Venice, a city of

perfume and song. Striking a body of water, the sun converted it into

a glowing shield, a silver escutcheon of the land of silver, and, in

contrast with this polished splendor, the shadows, trailing on the

far-away mountains, were soft, deep and velvety. But the freedom of

the outlook afforded the wounded man little comfort.

"The storm!" he said.

A change passed over his face, as of a shadow drawn before it. He

groped helplessly with his hand.

"Feel in my burnoose, Ernest. A bag--around my neck--open it!"

Saint-Prosper thrust his hand within the coat, shuddering at the

contact with the ebbing life's blood, and drew forth a leather bag

which he placed in the other's trembling fingers. With an effort,

breathing laboriously, and staring hard, as though striving to

penetrate a gathering film, the wounded man finally managed to display

the contents of the bag, emptying them in his palm, where they glinted

and gleamed in the sun's rays. Sapphires, of delicate blue; emeralds

with vitreous luster; opals of brilliant iridescence--but, above all,

a ruby of perfect color and extraordinary size, cut _en cabachon_, and

exhibiting a marvelous star of many rays; the ruby of Abd-el-Kader!

With a venal expression of delight, the gunner regarded the contents

of the bag, feeling the gems one by one. "The rarest stone--from the

Sagyin hills, Ernest!" he whispered, as his trembling fingers played

with the ruby.

But even as he fondled it, a great pain crossed his breast; he gripped

his shoulder tight with his free hand, clutching the precious stones

hard in his clenched fist. Thus he remained, how long the other never

knew, panting, growing paler, as the veins that carried life to his

heart were being slowly emptied.

His head dropped. "How dark!" he murmured. "Like a _m'chacha_ where

the hashish-smokers dream!"

The younger brother thought his energy was spent when he looked up

sharply.

"The lamp's out, you Devil Jew!" he cried. "The pipe, too--spawn of

hell!"

And he dropped back like stone, the gems falling from his hand, which

twitched spasmodically on the ground and then was still. Saint-Prosper

bent over him, but the heart, famished for nourishment, had ceased to

beat; the restless, wayward soul had fled from its tabernacle of dust.

Save for the stain on his breast and the fixedness of his eyes, he

might have been sleeping.

Mechanically the soldier gathered the sapphires, emeralds and other

gems--flashing testimony of that thankless past--and, leaning

against the wall, gazed afar to the snow-capped volcanoes. Even as he

looked, the vapors arose from the solfataras of the "smoking

mountain" and a vast shower of cinders and stones was thrown into the

air. Unnoticed passed the eruption before the gaze of Saint-Prosper,

whose mind in a torpor swept dully back to youth's roseate season,

recalling the homage of the younger for the elder brother, a

worship as natural as pagan adoration of the sun. From the sanguine

fore-time to the dead present lay a bridge of darkness. With honor

within grasp, deliberately he had sought dishonor, little recking

of shame and murder, and childishly husbanding green, red and blue

pebbles!

Weighing the stones in his hand now, Ernest Saint-Prosper looked at

them long and bitterly. For these the honor and pride of an old family

had been sold. For these he himself had endured the reflected

disgrace; isolation from comradeship; distrust which had blighted his

military career at the outset. How different had been the reality from

his expectations; the buoyant hopes of youth; the fond anticipation of

glory, succeeded by stigma and stain! And, as the miserable,

perplexing panorama of these later years pictured itself in his brain

he threw, with a sudden gesture, the gems far from him, over the wall,

out toward the valley!

Like dancing beams of color, they flashed a moment in mid air; then

mingled their hues with the rainbow tints of a falling stream. Lost to

sight, they sank in the crystal waters which leaped with a caressing

murmur toward the table-land; only the tiny spectrum, vivid reminder

of their color, still waved and wavered from rock to rock above a

pellucid pool.

"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said a voice at his elbow, breaking in

upon his reflections; "are you wounded?"

With drawn features, the officer turned.

"No; I am not wounded."

"The general directs you to take this message to the commanding

general," continued the little aide. "I believe I may congratulate

you, sir, for you will have the honor of bearing the news of the

victory." He handed Saint-Prosper a sealed message. "It's been a

glorious day, sir, but"--gazing carelessly around him--"has cost many

a brave life!"

"Yes, many a life!" answered the other, placing the message in his

breast and steadfastly regarding for the last time the figure beneath

the gun.

"We ought to be in the City of Mexico in a day or two, sir," resumed

the aide. "Won't it be jolly though, after forced marches and all that

sort of thing! Fandangos; tambourines; cymbals! And the pulque! What

creatures of the moment we are, sir!" he added, with sudden

thoughtfulness. "'Twill be, after all, like dancing over the graves of

our dear comrades!"

CHAPTER VIII

A FAIR PENITENT

The reception to General Zachary Taylor, on his return from Mexico,

and the inauguration of the carnival combined to the observance of a

dual festival day in the Crescent City. Up the river, past the rice

fields, disturbing the ducks and pelicans, ploughed the noisy craft

bearing "Old Rough and Ready" to the open port of the merry-making

town. When near the barracks, the welcoming cannon boomed, and the

affrighted darkies on the remote plantations shook with dire

forebodings of a Mexican invasion.

The boat rounded at the Place d'Armes, where, beneath a triumphal arch,

General Taylor received the crown and chaplet of the people--popular

applause--and a salvo of eloquence from the mayor. With flying colors

and nourish of trumpets, a procession of civic and military bodies was

then formed, the parade finally halting at the St. Charles, where the

fatted calf had been killed and the succulent ox roasted. Sounding a

retreat, the veteran commander fell back upon a private parlor to

recuperate his forces in anticipation of the forthcoming banquet.

From this stronghold, where, however, not all of the enemy--his

friends--could be excluded, there escaped an officer, with: "I'll look

around town a little, General."

"Look around!" said the commander at the door. "I should think we had

looked around! Well, don't fall foul of too many juleps."

With a laughing response, the young man pushed his way through the

jostling crowd near the door, traversed the animated corridor, and

soon found himself out on the busy street. Amid the variegated colors

and motley throng, he walked, not, however, in King Carnival's gay

domains, but in a city of recollections. The tavern he had just left

was associated with an unforgotten presence; the stores, the windows,

the thoroughfares themselves were fraught with retrospective

suggestion of the strollers.

Even now--and he came to an abrupt standstill--he was staring at the

bill-board of the theater where she had played, the familiar entrance

bedecked with bunting and festival inscriptions. Before its classic

portals appeared the black-letter announcement of an act by

"Impecunious Jordan, Ethiopian artist, followed by a Tableau of

General Scott's Capture of the City of Mexico." Mechanically he

stepped within and approached the box office. From the little

cupboard, a strange face looked forth; even the ticket vender of old

had been swallowed up by the irony of fate, and, instead of the

well-remembered blond mustache of the erstwhile seller of seats, a

dark-bearded man, with sallow complexion, inquired:

"How many?"

"One," said Saint-Prosper, depositing a Mexican piece on the counter

before the cubby-hole.

"We've taken in plenty of this kind of money to-day," remarked the

man, holding up the coin. "I reckon you come to town with old Zach?"

"Yes." The soldier was about to turn away, when he changed his mind

and observed: "You used to give legitimate drama here."

"That was some time ago," said the man in the box, reflectively. "The

soldiers like vaudeville. Ever hear Impecunious Jordan?"

"I never did."

"Then you've got a treat," continued the vender. "He's the best in his

line. Hope you'll enjoy it, sir," he concluded, with the courtesy

displayed toward one and all of "Old Rough and Ready's" men that day.

"It's the best seat left in the house. You come a little late, you

know." And as the other moved away:

"How different they look before and after! They went to Mexico fresh

as daisies, and come back--those that do--dead beat, done up!"

[Illustration]

Passing through the door, Saint-Prosper was ushered to his seat in a

renovated auditorium; new curtain, re-decorated stalls, mirrors and

gilt in profusion; the old restfulness gone, replaced by glitter and

show. Amid changed conditions, the derangement of fixed external form

and outline, the sight of a broad face in the orchestra and the aspect

of a colossal form riveted his attention. This person was neither

stouter nor thinner than before; he perspired neither more nor less;

he was neither older nor younger--seemingly; he played on his

instrument neither better nor worse. Youth might fade, honors take

wing, the face of nature change, but Hans, Gargantuan Hans, appeared

but a figure in an eternal present! Gazing at that substantial

landmark, the soldier was carried back in thought over the long period

of separation to a forest idyl; a face in the firelight; the song of

the katydid; the drumming of the woodpecker. Dreams; vain dreams! They

had assailed him before, but seldom so sharply as now in a place

consecrated to the past.

"Look out for the dandies,

Girls, beware;

Look out for their blandishments,

Dears, take care!

For they're always ready--remember this!--

To pilfer from maids an unwilling kiss.

Oh, me! Oh, my! There! There!" (_Imaginary slaps._)

sang and gesticulated a lady in abbreviated skirts and low-cut dress,

winking and blinking in ironical shyness, and concluding with a

flaunting of her gown, a toe pointed ceilingward, and a lively

"breakdown." Then she vanished with a hop, skip and a bow, reappeared

with a ravishing smile and threw a generous assortment of kisses among

the audience, and disappeared with another hop, skip and a bow, as

Impecunious Jordan burst upon the spectators from the opposite side of

the stage.

Even the sight of Hans, a finger-post pointing to ways long since

traversed, could not reconcile the soldier to his surroundings; the

humor of the burnt-cork artist seemed inappropriate to the place; his

grotesque dancing inadmissible in that atmosphere once consecrated to

the comedy of manners and the stately march of the classic drama.

Where Hamlet had moralized, a loutish clown now beguiled the time with

some tom-foolery, his wit so broad, his quips were cannon-balls, and

his audience, for the most part soldiers from Mexico, open-mouthed

swallowed the entire bombardment. But Saint-Prosper, finding the

performance dull, finally rose and went out, not waiting for the

thrilling Tableaux of the Entrance into the City of Mexico of a

hundred American troops (impersonated by young ladies in tropical

attire) and the submission of Santa Anna's forces (more young ladies)

by sinking gracefully to their bended knees.

Fun and frolic were now in full swing on the thoroughfares;

Democritus, the rollicker, had commanded his subjects to drive dull

care away and they obeyed the jovial lord of laughter. Animal spirits

ran high; mischief beguiled the time; mummery romped and rioted.

Marshaled by disorder, armed with drollery and divers-hued banners,

they marched to the Castle of Chaos, where the wise are fools, the old

are young and topsy-turvy is the order of the day.

As Saint-Prosper stood watching the versicolored concourse swarm by, a

sudden rush of bystanders to view Faith on a golden pedestal, looking

more like Coquetry, propelled a dainty figure against the soldier.

Involuntarily he put out his arm which girded a slender waist; Faith

drove simpering by; the crowd melted like a receding wave, and the

lady extricated herself, breathless as one of the maids in Lorenzo de

Medici's Songs of the Carnival.

"How awkward!" she murmured. "How--"

The sentence remained unfinished and an exclamation, "Mr. Saint-Prosper!"

punctuated a gleam of recognition.

"Miss Duran!" he exclaimed, equally surprised, for he had thought the

strollers scattered to the four winds.

"Mrs. Service, if you please!" Demurely; at the same time extending

her hand with a faint flush. "Yes; I am really and truly married! But

it is so long since we met, I believe I--literally flew to your

arms!"

"That was before you recognized me," he returned, in the same tone.

Susan laughed. "But how do you happen to be here? I thought you were

dead. No; only wounded? How fortunate! Of course you came with the

others. I should hardly know you. I declare you're as thin as a lath

and gaunt as a ghost. You look older, too. Remorse, I suppose, for

killing so many poor Mexicans!"

"And you"--surveying her face, which had the freshness of morn--"look

younger!"

"Of course!" Adjusting some fancied disorder of hair or bonnet.

"Marriage is a fountain of youth for"--with a sigh--"old maids. Susan

Duran, spinster! Horrible! Do you blame me?"

"For getting married? Not at all. Who is the fortunate man?" asked

Saint-Prosper.

"A minister; an orthodox minister; a most orthodox minister!"

"No?" His countenance expressed his sense of the incongruity of the

union. Susan one of the elect; the meek and lowly yokemate of--"How

did it happen?" he said.

"In a perverse moment, I--went to church," answered Susan. "There, I

met him--I mean, I saw him--no, I mean, I heard him! It was enough.

All the women were in love with him. How could I help it?"

"He must have been very persuasive."

"Persuasive! He scolded us every minute. Dress and the devil!

I"--casting down her eyes--"interested him from the first. He--he

married me to reform me."

"Ah," commented the soldier, gazing doubtfully upon Susan's smart

gown, which, with elaborate art, followed the contours of her figure.

"But, of course, one must keep up appearances, you know," she

continued. "What's the use of being a minister's wife if you aren't

popular with the congregation? At least," she added, "with part of

them!" And Susan tapped the pavement with a well-shod boot and showed

her white teeth. "If you weren't popular, you couldn't fill the

seats--I mean pews," she added, evasively. "But you must come and see

me--us, I should say."

"Unfortunately, I am leaving to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" repeated Susan, reflectively. The pupils of her eyes

contracted, something they did whenever she was thinking deeply, and

her gaze passed quickly over his face, striving to read his impassive

features. "So soon? When the carnival is on! That is too bad, to stay

only one day, and not call on any of your old friends! Constance, I am

sure, would be delighted to see you."

Many women would have looked away under the circumstances, but Susan's

eyes were innocently fixed upon his. Half the pleasure of the

assurance was in the accompanying glance and the friendly smile that

went with it.

But a quiet question, "Miss Carew is living here?" was all the

satisfaction she received.

"Yes. Have you not heard? She has a lovely home and an embarrassment

of riches. Sweet embarrassment! Health and wealth! What more could one

ask? Although I forgot, she was taken ill shortly after you left."

"Ill," he said, starting.

"Quite! But soon recovered!" And Susan launched into a narration of

the events that had taken place while he was in Mexico, to which he

listened with the composure of a man who, having had his share of the

vagaries of fate, is not to be taken aback by new surprises, however

singular or tragic. Susan expected an expression of regret--by look or

word--over the loss of the marquis' fortune, but either he simulated

indifference or passed the matter by with philosophical fortitude.

"Poor Barnes!" was his sole comment.

"Yes; it was very lonely for Constance at first," rattled on Susan.

"But I fancy she will find a woman's solace for that ailment," she

added meaningly.

"Marriage?" he asked soberly.

"Well, the engagement is not yet announced," said Susan, hesitatingly.

"But you know how things get around? And the count has been so

attentive! You remember him surely--the Count de Propriac? But I must

be off. I have an appointment with my husband and am already half an

hour late."

"Don't let me detain you longer, then, I beg."

"Oh, I don't mind. He's so delightfully jealous when I fail to appear

on the stroke of the clock! Always imagines I am in some misch--but I

mustn't tell tales out of school! So glad to have met you! Come and

see me--do!"

And Susan with friendly hand-clasp and lingering look, tore herself

away, the carnival lightness in her feet and the carnival laughter in

her eyes.

"He is in love with her still," she thought, "or he wouldn't have

acted so indifferent!" Her mind reverted to a cold little message she

had received from Constance. "And to think he was innocent after all!"

she continued, mentally reviewing the contents of the letter in which

Constance had related the conversation with the lawyer. "I don't

believe he'll call on her now, though, after--Well, why shouldn't I

have told him what every one is talking about? Why not, indeed?"

A toss of the head dismissed the matter and any doubts pertaining

thereto, while her thoughts flew from past to present, as a fortress

on a car, its occupants armed with pellets of festival conflict, drove

by amid peals of laughter. Absorbed in this scene of merriment, Susan

forgot her haste, and kept her apostolic half waiting at the

rendezvous with the patience of a Jacob tarrying for a Rachel. But

when she did finally appear, with hat not perfectly poised, her hair

in a pretty disarray, she looked so waywardly charming, he forgave her

on the spot, and the lamb led the stern shepherd with a crook from

Eve's apple tree.

"As thin as a lath and gaunt as a ghost!" repeated Saint-Prosper, as

the fair penitent vanished in a whirl of gaiety. "Susan always was

frank."

Smiling somewhat bitterly, he paused long enough to light a cigar, but

it went out in his fingers as he strolled mechanically toward the

wharves, through the gardens of a familiar square, where the wheezing

of the distant steamers and the echoes of the cathedral clock marked

the hours of pleasure or pain to-day as it had tolled them off

yesterday. Beyond the pale of the orange trees with their golden

wealth, the drays were rumbling in the streets and there were the same

signs of busy traffic--for the carnival had not yet become a legal

holiday--that he had observed when the strollers had reached the city

and made their way to the St. Charles. He saw her anew, pale and

thoughtful, leaning on the rail of the steamer looking toward the

city, where events, undreamed of, were to follow thick and fast. He

saw her, a slender figure, earnest, self-possessed, enter the city

gates, unheralded, unknown. He saw her as he had known her in the

wilderness--not as fancy might now depict her, the daughter of a

marquis--a strolling player, and as such he loved best to think of

her.

Arising out of his physical weakness and the period of inaction

following the treaty of peace, he experienced a sudden homesickness

for his native land; a desire to re-visit familiar scenes, to breathe

the sweet air of the country, where his boyhood had been passed, to

listen to the thunder of the boulevards, to watch the endless,

sad-joyful processions.

Not far distant from the blossoming, redolent square was the office of

the Trans-Atlantic Steamship Company, where a clerk, with a spray of

jessamine in his coat, bent cordially toward Saint-Prosper as the

latter entered, and, approaching the desk, inquired:

"The Dauphin is advertised to sail to-morrow for France?"

"Yes, sir; at twelve o'clock noon."

"Book me for a berth. Ernest Saint-Prosper," he added, in answer to

the other's questioning look.

"Very good, sir. Would you like some labels for your baggage? Where

shall we send for it? The St. Charles? Very well, sir. Are you going

to the tableaux to-night?" he continued, with hospitable interest in

one whom he rightly conceived a stranger in the city. "They say it

will be the fashionable event. Good-day." As the prospective passenger

paid for and received his ticket. "A pleasant voyage! The Dauphin is a

new ship and should cross in three weeks--barring bad weather! Don't

forget the tableaux. Everybody will be there."

The soldier did not reply; his heart had given a sudden throb at the

clerk's last words. Automatically he placed his ticket in his

pocket, and randomly answered the employee's further inquiries for

instructions. He was not thinking of the Dauphin or her new engines,

the forerunner of the modern quadruple-expansion arrangement, but

through his brain rang the assurance: "Everybody will be there." And

all the way up the street, it repeated itself again and again.

CHAPTER IX

"COMUS' MISTICK WITCHERIES"

That elusive, nocturnal company, "The Mistick Krewe of Comus," had

appeared--"Comus, deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries"--and

the dwellers in Phantasmagoria were joyfully numerous. More

plentiful than at a modern spectacular performance, reveled gods,

demons and fairies, while the children resembled a flight of

masquerading butterflies. The ball at the theater, the Roman

Veglioni, succeeded elaborate tableaux, the "Tartarus," of the

ancients, and "Paradise Lost," of Milton, in which the "Krewe"

impersonated Pluto and Proserpine, the fates, harpies and other

characters of the representation. In gallery, dress-circle and

parquet, the theater was crowded, the spectacle, one of dazzling

toilets, many of them from the ateliers of the Parisian modistes; a

wonderful evolution of Proserpine's toga and the mortal robes of the

immortal Fates. Picture followed picture: The expulsion from

Paradise; the conference of the Gorgons, and the court of pandemonium,

where gluttony, drunkenness, avarice and vanity were skilfully set

forth in uncompromising colors.

Availing themselves of the open-house of the unknown "Krewe," a

composite host that vanished on the stroke of twelve, many of "Old

Rough and Ready's" retinue mingled with the gathering, their uniforms,

well-worn, even shabby, unlike the spick and span regimentals from the

_costumier_. With bronzed faces and the indubitable air of campaigns

endured, they were the objects of lively interest to the fair maskers,

nor were themselves indifferent to the complaisance of their

entertainers. Hands, burned by the sun, looked blacker that night,

against the white gowns of waists they clasped; bearded faces more

grim visaged in contrast with delicate complexions; embroidery and

brocade whirled around with faded uniforms; and dancing aigrettes

waved above frayed epaulets and shoulder straps.

"Loog at 'im!" murmured a _fille a la cassette_, regarding one of

these officers who, however, held aloof from the festivities; a

well-built young man, but thin and worn, as though he, like his

uniform, had seen service. "If he would only carry my trunk!" she

laughed, relapsing into French and alluding to the small chest she

bore under her arm.

"Or my little white lamb!" gaily added her companion, a shepherdess.

And they tripped by with sidelong looks and obvious challenge which

the quarry of these sprightly huntresses of men either chose to

disregard or was unconscious of, as he deliberately surveyed his

surroundings with more curiosity than pleasure and absently listened

to a mountebank from "The Belle's Strategem."

"Who'll buy my nostrums?" cried the buffoon.

"What are they?" asked Folly, cantering near on a hobby horse.

"Different kinds for different people. Here's a powder for ladies--to

dispel the rage for intrigue. Here's a pill for politicians--to settle

bad consciences. Here's an eye-water for jealous husbands--it thickens

the visual membrane. Here's something for the clergy--it eliminates

windy discourses. Here's an infusion for creditors--it creates

resignation and teaches patience."

"And what have you for lovers?"

"Nothing," answered the clown; "love like fever and ague must run its

course. Nostrums! Who'll buy my nostrums?"

"Oh, I'm so glad I came!" enthusiastically exclaimed a tall, supple

girl, laden with a mass of flowers.

"Isn't it too bad, though, you can't polka with some of the military

gentlemen?" returned her companion who wore a toga and carried a

lantern. "Mademoiselle Castiglione wouldn't let you come, until I

promised not to allow you out of my sight."

"It was lovely of you to take me," she said, "and I don't mind about

the military gentlemen."

"My dear, if all women were like you, we poor civilians would not be

relegated to the background! I wish, though, I had worn some other

costume. This--ahem, dress!--has a tendency to get between my legs and

disconcert my philosophical dignity. I can understand why Diogenes

didn't care about walking abroad. My only wonder is that everybody

didn't stay in his tub in those days. Don't talk to me about the

'noble Roman!' Why, he wore skirts!"

"And Monsieur Intaglio lectured to us for an hour to-day about the

wonderful drapery of the ancients!" laughed the girl. "The poetry of

dress, he called it!"

"Then I prefer prose. Hello!"--pausing and raising his lantern, as

they drew near the officer who had fallen under the observation of the

_fille a la cassette_. "Colonel Saint-Prosper, or set me down for an

ass--or Plato, which is the same thing!"

"Straws!" said the soldier, as the bard frankly lifted his mask and

tilted it back over his forehead.

"Glad to see you!" continued the poet, extending his hand. "I haven't

run across you before since the night of the banquet; the debut of

Barnes' company you remember? You must have left town shortly

afterward. Returned this morning, of course! By the way, there's one

of your old friends here to-night."

Saint-Prosper felt the color mount to his face, and even Straws noted

the change. "Who is that?" asked the soldier, awkwardly.

"Mrs. Service--Miss Duran that was--now one of our most dashing--I

should say, charitable, ladies. Plenty of men at Service's church now.

She's dressed in Watteau-fashion to-night, so if you see any one

skipping around, looking as though she had just stepped from the

Embarkation for the Island of Venus, set her down for the minister's

pretty wife!"

"And the minister?" asked Saint-Prosper, mechanically.

"He brought her; he compromised on a Roundhead costume, himself! But

we must be off. _Au revoir_; don't be backward; the ladies are all

military-mad. It may be a field of arms"--casting his glance over the

assemblage of fashionably dressed ladies, with a quizzical smile--"but

not hostile arms! Come, Celestina--Nydia, I mean!"

And Straws' arm stole about the waist of his companion, as Saint-Prosper

watched them disappearing in the throng of dancers. It was Celestina's

first ball, and after her long training at the Castiglione institute, she

danced divinely. Evidently, too, she was reconciled to the warden's

edict, denying her the freedom of the ball-room, for she showed no

disposition to escape from Straws' watchful care. On the contrary,

though her glance wandered to the wonders around her, they quickly

returned to the philosopher with the lamp, as though she courted the

restraint to which she was subjected. Something like a pang shot

through the soldier's breast as he followed the pair with his gaze; he

seemed looking backward into a world of youth and pleasure, passed beyond

recall.

"It is useless to deny it! I knew you when I first saw you!" exclaimed

a familiar voice near by, and turning around sharply, the officer

observed approaching a masked lady, graceful of figure and lacking

nothing in the numerical strength of her escort. It was to her that

these words were addressed by an agile man of medium stature who had

apparently penetrated her disguise. The lady, who would have

attracted attention anywhere by her bearing, wore a pardessus of

white gauze, fitting close and bordered with a silver band; the

sleeves, short; the skirt of white gauze and very ample, as the

fashion of the day required; the feet shod in small white silk

"_bottines_"; the hair in bands, ornamented with wild poppies.

Altogether this costume was described by Phazma as "ravishing, the

gown adorning the lady, and the lady the gown, her graces set forth

against the sheen of voluminous satin folds, like those of some

portrait by Sir Joshua or Gainsborough."

"How could you expect any one not to know you?" continued the speaker,

as this little coterie drew near, their masks a pretext for mystery.

"You may impersonate, but you can not deceive."

"That is a poor compliment, since you take me for an actress," laughed

the lady. An hilarious outburst from an ill-assorted cluster of

maskers behind them drowned his reply, and the lady and her attendants

passed on.

Saint-Prosper drew his breath sharply. "She is here, after all," he

said to himself.

"A nostrum for jilted beaux!" called out a mountebank, seeing him

standing there, preoccupied, alone, at the same time tendering a pill

as large as a plum. A punchinello jarred against him with: "Pardonnez_

moi, pardie!_" On the perfumed air the music swelled rapturously; a

waltz, warm with the national life of Vienna; the swan song of Lanner!

Softly, sweetly, breathed "Die Schoenbrunner;" faster whirled the

moving forms. Eyes flashed more brightly; little feet seemed born for

dancing; cheeks, pale at midday, were flushed with excitement! Why

doesn't he dance, wondered the lady with the white lamb. Carnival

comes but once a year; a mad, merry time; when gaiety should sweep all

cares out of doors!

"Said Strephon to Chloe: 'For a kiss,

I'll give thee the choice of my flock.'

Said Chloe to Strephon: 'What bliss,

If you'll add to the gift a new smock,'"

hummed the lively nymph, as she tripped by.

"Said Chloe to Strephon: 'For a kiss,

I'll return thee the choice of your flock.

Said Strephon to Chloe: 'What bliss,

With it I'll buy Phyllis a new frock,'"

she concluded, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

A sudden distaste for the festal ferment, the laughter and merriment;

a desire to escape from the very exuberance of high spirits and cheer

led the soldier to make his way slowly from the ball-room to the

balcony, where, although not removed from the echoes of liveliness

within, he looked out upon the quietude of the night. Overhead

stretched the sky, a measureless ocean, with here and there a silvery

star like the light on a distant ship; an unfathomable sea of ether

that beat down upon him. Radiant and serene, in the boundless calm of

the heavens, the splendent lanterns seemed suspended on stationary

craft peacefully rocked at anchor. Longings, suppressed through months

of absence, once more found full sway; Susan's words were recalled by

the presence of the count.

Suddenly the song of "Die Schoenbrunner" ceased within, and, as its

pulsations became hushed, many of the dancers, an elate, buoyant

throng, sought the balcony. Standing in the shadow near the entrance,

aroused from a train of reflections by this abrupt exodus, the soldier

saw among the other merry-makers, Constance and the count, who passed

through the door, so near he could almost have touched her.

"Here she is," said the count, as they approached an elderly lady,

seated near the edge of the balcony. "Ah, Madam," he continued to the

latter, "if you would only use your good offices in my behalf! Miss

Carew is cruelty itself."

"Why, what has she done?" asked the good gentlewoman.

"Insisted upon deserting the ball-room!"

"In my day," said the elderly ally of the nobleman, "you could not

drag the young ladies from cotillion or minuet. And the men would stay

till the dawn to toast them!"

"And I've no doubt, Madam, your name was often on their lips,"

returned the count gallantly, who evidently believed in the Spanish

proverb: "Woo the duenna, not the maid; then in love the game's well

played!"

The ally in his cause made some laughing response which the soldier

did not hear. Himself unseen, Saint-Prosper bent his eyes upon the

figure of the young girl, shadowy but obvious in the reflected light

of the bright constellations. Even as he gazed, her hand removed the

mask, revealing the face he knew so well. In the silence below, the

fountain tinkled ever so loudly, as she stood, half-turned toward the

garden, a silken head-covering around her shoulders; the head outlined

without adornment, save the poppies in her hair.

Her presence recalled scenes of other days: the drive from the races,

when her eyes had beamed so softly beneath the starry luster. Did she

remember? He dared not hope so; he did not. To him, it brought, also,

harsher memories; yet his mind was filled most with her beauty, which

appeared to gloss over all else and hold him, a not impassive

spectator, to the place where she was standing. She seemed again

Juliet--the Juliet of inns and school-house stages--the Juliet he had

known before she had come to New Orleans, whose genius had transformed

the barren stage into a garden of her own creation.

And yet something made her different; an indefinable new quality

appeared to rest upon her. He felt his heart beating faster; he was

glad he had come; for the moment he forgot his jealousy in watching

her, as with new wealth of perfume, the languid breeze stirred the

tresses above her pallid, immovable features. But the expression of

confidence with which the count was regarding her, although ostensibly

devoting himself to her companion, renewed his inquietude.

Had she allowed herself to be drawn into a promised alliance with that

titled roue? Involuntarily the soldier's face grew hard and stern; the

count's tactics were so apparent--flattering attention to the elderly

gentlewoman and a devoted, but reserved, bearing toward the young girl

in which he would rely upon patience and perseverance for the

consummation of his wishes. But certainly Constance did not exhibit

marked preference for his society; on the contrary, she had hardly

spoken to him since they had left the ball-room. Now clasping the iron

railing of the balcony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the

vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and

she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.

"It is cold here," she said, drawing back.

"Allow me--your wrap!" exclaimed the count, springing to her side with

great solicitude.

But she adjusted the garment without his assistance.

"You must be careful of your health--for the sake of your friends!"

Accompanying the words with a significant glance.

"The count is right!" interposed the elderly gentlewoman. "As he

usually is!" she added, laughing.

"Oh, Madam!" he said, bowing. "Miss Carew does not agree with you, I

am sure?" Turning to the girl.

"I haven't given the matter any thought," she replied, coldly. She

shivered slightly, nervously, and looked around.

At that moment the lights were turned on in the garden--another

surprise arranged by the Mistick Krewe!--illuminating trees and

shrubbery, and casting a sudden glare upon the balcony.

"Bravo!" said the count. "It's like a _fete-champetre_! And hear the

mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?"

She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the

back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play,

and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of

masqueraders started toward the ball-room. When the inflow of

merry-makers had ceased, bewildered, trembling, she looked with

blanched face toward the spot where the soldier had been standing, but

he was gone.

At that moment the cathedral clock began to strike--twelve times it

sounded, and, at the last stroke, the Mistick Krewe, one by one began

to disappear, vanishing as mysteriously as they had come. Pluto,

Proserpine, the Fates, fairies and harpies; Satan, Beelzebub; the

dwellers in pandemonium; the aids to appetite--all took their quick

departure, leaving the musicians and the guests of the evening,

including the visiting military, to their own pleasures and devices.

The first carnival had come to a close.

CHAPTER X

CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER

"Are you the clerk?" A well-modulated voice; a silvery crown of hair

leaning over the counter of the St. Charles; blue eyes, lighted with

unobtrusive inquiry.

The small, quiet-looking man addressed glanced up. "No," he said; "I

am the proprietor. This"--waving his hand to a resplendent-appearing

person--"is the clerk."

Whereupon the be-diamonded individual indicated (about whom an entire

chapter has been written by an observing English traveler!) came

forward leisurely; a Brummell in attire; an Aristarchus for taste!

Since his period--or reign--there have been many imitators; but he was

the first; indeed, created the office, and is deserving of a permanent

place in American annals. "His formality just bordered on stiffness,"

wrote the interested Briton, as though he were studying some new

example of the human species; "his conversation was elegant, but

pointed, as he was gifted with a cultured economy of language. He

accomplished by inflection what many people can only attain through

volubility."

"Yes?" he interrogatively remarked, gazing down at the caller in the

present instance.

"Is Colonel Saint-Prosper stopping here?"

"Yes."

"Send this card to his room."

"Yes?" Doubtfully.

"Is there any reason why you shouldn't?"

"There was a military banquet last night," interposed the quiet,

little man. "Patriotism bubbled over until morning."

"Ah, yes," commented Culver--for it was he--"fought their battles over

again! Some of them in the hospital to-day! Well, well, they suffered

in a glorious cause, toasting the president, and the army, and the

flag, and the girls they left behind them! I read the account of it in

the papers this morning. Grand speech of the bishop; glorious response

of 'Old Rough and Ready'! You are right to protect sleeping heroes,

but I'm afraid I must run the guard, as my business is urgent."

A few moments later the lawyer, breathing heavily, followed a colored

lad down a crimson-carpeted corridor, pausing before a door upon which

his guide knocked vigorously and then vanished.

"Colonel Saint-Prosper?" said the lawyer, as he obeyed the voice

within and entered the room, where a tall young man in civilian attire

was engaged in packing a small trunk. "One moment, pray--let me catch

my breath. That lad accomplished the ascent two steps at a time, and,

I fear, the spectacle stimulated me to unusual expedition. We're apt

to forget we are old and can't keep up with boys and monkeys!"

During this somewhat playful introduction the attorney was studying

the occupant of the room with keen, bright gaze; a glance which, without

being offensive, was sufficiently penetrating and comprehensive to

convey a definite impression of the other's face and figure. The

soldier returned his visitor's look deliberately, but with no surprise.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

Culver availed himself of the invitation. "I am not disturbing you? I

have long known of you, although this is our first meeting."

"You have then the advantage of me," returned Saint-Prosper, "for

I--"

"You never heard of me?" laughed the lawyer. "Exactly! We attorneys

are always getting our fingers in every one's affairs! I am acquainted

with you, as it were, from the cradle to the--present!"

"I am unexpectedly honored!" remarked the listener, satirically.

"First, I knew you through the Marquis de Ligne."

Saint-Prosper started and regarded his visitor more closely.

"I was the humble instrument of making a fortune for you; it was also

my lot to draw up the papers depriving you of the same!" Culver

laughed amiably. "'Oft expectation fails, where most it promises.'

Pardon my levity! There were two wills; the first, in your favor; the

last, in his daughter's. I presume"--with a sudden, sharp look--"you

have no intention of contesting the final disposition? The paternity

of the child is established beyond doubt."

Artful Culver was not by any means so sure in his own mind that, if

the other were disposed to make trouble, the legal proofs of

Constance's identity would be so easily forthcoming. Barnes was dead;

her mother had passed away many years before; the child had been born

in London--where?--the marquis' rationality, just before his demise,

was a debatable question. In fact, since he had learned Saint-Prosper

was in the city, the attorney's mind had been soaring among a cloud of

vague possibilities, and now, regarding his companion with a most

kindly, ingratiating smile, he added:

"Besides, when the marquis took you as a child into his household,

there were, I understood, no legal papers drawn!"

"I don't see what your visit portends," said Saint-Prosper, "unless

there is some other matter?"

"Just so," returned Culver, his doubts vanishing. "There was a small

matter--a slight commission. Miss Carew requested me to hand you this

message." The visitor now detected a marked change in the soldier's

imperturbable bearing, as the latter took the envelope which the

attorney offered him. "The young lady saw you at the Mistick Krewe

ball last night, and, recognizing an old friend,"--with a slight

accent--"pressed me into her service. And now, having completed my

errand, I will wish you good-morning!" And the lawyer briskly

departed.

The young man's hand trembled as he tore open the envelope, but he

surveyed the contents of the brief message with tolerable firmness.

"COLONEL SAINT-PROSPER: Will you kindly call this morning to see

me?

CONSTANCE CAREW."

That was all; nothing more, save the address and the date! How long he

remained staring at it with mingled feelings he never knew, but

finally with a start, looked at his watch, thoughtfully regarded the

half-filled trunk, donned his coat and left the room. Several

fellow-officers, the first of the sluggards to appear, spoke to him as

he crossed the hall below, but what they said or what he replied he

could not afterward remember. Some one detained him at the steps, a

gentleman with a longing for juleps, but finally he found himself in a

carriage, driving somewhere, presumably to the address given in the

letter. How long the drive seemed, and yet when the carriage finally

stopped and he had paid his fare, he mentally determined it had been

too short! The driver gazed in surprise after the gentleman, who did

not wait for his change, but, forbearing injudicious comment, gathered

up the reins and drove to the nearest _cafe_.

From the carriage the house was some distance, and yet it appeared

very near the gate to the soldier, who dimly realized he was passing

through a garden where were many flowering plants and where the air

was unusually heavy with perfume. Many other details, the construction

of the house, the size of the verandas, passed without attracting his

notice. Soon, however, he was seated in a great room, an apartment of

old-fashioned height and breadth. He felt his heart beating fast. How

long did he sit there? No inconsiderable period, surely. He examined

everything carefully, without carrying a definite impression of

anything to his mind. The large, carved mirror; the quaint decoration

of walls and frieze; the soft colors of the rug that covered the

floor; the hundred and one odd little things in the cabinet near the

chair where he was seated, trifles in ivory, old silver and china; the

pictures, a Van Dyke, Claude, and a few modern masters. After this

interminable, but confused scrutiny of inanimate things, his heart

beat faster still, as a tall figure, robed in white, entered the

room!

He rose; they regarded each other with mutual constraint; her face had

a bit of color, like the tinge of a rose-leaf; her eyes seemed

agitated beneath the sweeping lashes, a sentiment in ill accord with

the stateliness of her presence. She gave him her hand; he held it he

knew not how long; probably, for the conventional moment. They found

themselves, each in a chair; at ease, yet not at ease; he studying her

face, furtively, yet eagerly; she turning in her fancy the first

strong impression of how gaunt and haggard were his features, bearing

the traces of recent illness!

"I am glad you came," she began, their eyes meeting once more.

He bowed. "Mr. Culver brought me your message."

"I heard that you--it was reported you were dead."

"I was wounded; that was all, and soon took to the field again."

The suspense that fell between them was oppressive.

"You should have let your friends--know," she said at length.

He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview

recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he,

watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose,

walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim

light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure

outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers

of the vines on the veranda.

"It is long since we have met," he said, awkwardly.

She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence.

If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only

conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained,

gazing out into the sunlit garden.

"Much has happened since I saw you," he continued.

She turned; her eyes were moist; her hand trembled a little against

her dress, but she held her head proudly, as she had always done, and

it was the aspect of this weakness set against strength that appealed

swiftly to him, softening his heart so that he longed to spring to her

side.

"Yes, much!" she replied.

Was her voice tremulous, or was it but the thrill of his own heart

which made it seem so?

"You have been here long?" she asked, still holding back what was on

her mind or blindly endeavoring to approach the subject.

"Only since yesterday."

"And you remain some time?"

"I am leaving to-day--for France."

At that a touch of color left her face, or was it that a darkening

shadow fell upon the house and garden, momentarily chastening the

outlook?

"For France?" she repeated.

Her lips quivered. Something seemed to still the beating of his

heart.

"Constance--what is it?" he half-whispered.

She stepped forward suddenly, her hands outstretched.

"I wronged you!" she cried. "I wronged you. I thought the disgrace was

yours. Oh, do not speak!" she added, passionately. "I have suffered

for it--and now, would you mind--please--leaving me?"

"You thought the disgrace was mine!" he repeated, slowly. "Not my"--he

broke off abruptly. "And you suffered--for it?" he said, wonderingly.

"Then you--" He arose quickly and approached her, a new expression

transfiguring his bronzed and worn young face.

Swiftly he sought her glance; her eyes gave irrefutable answer.

Unresistingly, she abandoned herself to his arms, and he felt her

bosom rise and fall with conflicting emotions. Closely he held her, in

the surprise and surpassing pleasure of the moment; then, bending, he

kissed her lips. A wave of color flooded her face, though her eyes

still sought his. But even as he regarded her, the clear, open look

gradually changed, replaced by one of half-perplexity, half-reproach.

"That night you went away--why did you not defend yourself?" she

asked, finally.

"I never imagined--any mistake. Besides, what had I to offer? Your

future was bright; your name, on every one's lips!"

"Did you think you were responsible for another's sins?"

His dark features clouded.

"I suppose I had become accustomed to cold looks. In Africa, by some

of my comrades who had an inkling of the story! No matter what I did,

I was his brother! And the bitterest part was that I loved him; loved

him from my boyhood! He was the handsomest, most joyous fellow! Even

when he died in my arms in Mexico my heart could not absolutely turn

from him."

[Illustration]

She opened her lips as if to speak, but the shadow on his face kept

her silent.

"I was weak enough to keep the story from you in the first place--a

foolish reticence, for these matters follow a man to the ends of the

world."

"Oh," she said, "to think it was I who made you feel this!"

He took her hand; his grasp hurt her fingers; yet she did not shrink.

"You showed me a new world," he answered, quickly. "Not the world I

expected to find--where life would hold little of joy or zest--but a

magical world; a beautiful world; yours!"

She half-hung her head. "But then--then--"

"It became a memory; bitter-sweet; yet more sweet than bitter!"

"And now?"

He did not answer immediately.

The figure of the count, as he had seen him the night before, had

abruptly entered his mind. Did she understand? She smiled.

"And now?"

At her question he dismissed all thought of jealousy. Looking into her

clear, half-laughing eyes, he read of no entangling alliances; without

words from her, he understood.

"Shall we go into the garden?" she said, and, opening the window, they

stepped out upon the veranda.

In the sky a single large cloud stretched itself in a dreamy torpor,

too sluggish, apparently to move, while a brood of little clouds

nestled and slept around it. From the window, the count's ally watched

them, among the plants and vines, pausing now and then; their interest

more in themselves than in the liveliest hues or forms that nature

offered. He stood still, regarding his shadow on the path seriously.

"Nearly noon by the soldier's dial!" he said.

She pushed back the hair the wind had blown about her brow.

"My boat sails in an hour," he continued.

"But--you are not--going--now?"

"If I stay, it must be--"

"Forever!" she said. "Forever!"

* * * * *

"Have you heard the news?" said Susan to the count.

"Secular?" drawled the erstwhile emissary. He was in ill-humor, having

called three times on Constance, who had been excused on all these

occasions.

"Not necessarily," replied she, with the old familiar toss of the

head. "Saint-Prosper has come back, and he's going to marry

Constance!"

"Eh? What? I don't be--Who told you?" demanded the count, sharply.

"Well, you needn't take my head off! She did, if you want to know."

"Miss Carew?"

"Herself!"

The nobleman lolled back in his chair, a dark look on his face. Here

were fine hopes gone a-glimmering!

"_Pardie!_ the creditors will have to wait awhile," he thought. "And

I--I have been a dunce, dancing attendance all these days! I had hoped

to marry wealth and beauty. What did I come over here for? The demned

country's barren of everything!"

"Isn't it delightful they should meet after such a long time?" rattled

on Susan, gaily. "So romantic! And then they were exactly suited for

each other. Dear me,"--enthusiastically--"I have taken such an

interest in them, I almost feel as if I had brought it all about."

THE END

A LIST OF RECENT FICTION OF THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY

AN INTERESTING STORY OF FAMILY LIFE.

THE FIGHTING BISHOP

By HERBERT M. HOPKINS

"The Fighting Bishop" is drawn with firm, bold strokes and with a

sufficiently scholarly atmosphere to make the picture life like. There is

wisdom too, in the attitude of the author toward his characters; and the

entire atmosphere of the book is of fine quality. The general accuracy and

vividness of the portraiture are likely to impress everyone. * * * It

contains passages and characterizations that some readers will find it

difficult to forget.--The Hartford Courant.

The bishop's musical son, Stephen's, obstinate vanity, his irritable

nervous nature, his impatience of advice and his wonderful confidence in

his own genius are admirably brought out in the course of the narrative

and the chapter containing his letters to his brother is one of the best

in the book. It shows his character humorously and without exaggeration,

and this is typical of the whole story. The author sees his personages

with a human sympathetic eye.--New York Sun.

12 mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis.

"NOTHING BUT PRAISE"

LAZARRE

By MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD

Glorified by a beautiful love story.--Chicago Tribune.

We feel quite justified in predicting a wide-spread and prolonged

popularity for this latest comer into the ranks of historical

fiction.--The N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.

After all the material for the story had been collected a year was

required for the writing of it. It is an historical romance of the better

sort, with stirring situations, good bits of character drawing and a

satisfactory knowledge of the tone and atmosphere of the period

involved.--N. Y. Herald.

Lazarre, is no less a person than the Dauphin, Louis XVII. of France, and

a right royal hero he makes. A prince who, for the sake of his lady,

scorns perils in two hemispheres, facing the wrath of kings in Europe and

the bullets of savages in America; who at the last spurns a kingdom that

he may wed her freely--here is one to redeem the sins of even those who

"never learn and never forget."--Philadelphia. North American.

With six Illustrations by Andre Castaigne

12 mo. Price, $1.50.

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A VIVACIOUS ROMANCE OF REVOLUTIONARY DAYS

ALICE of OLD VINCENNES

By MAURICE THOMPSON

The Atlanta Constitution says:

"Mr. Thompson, whose delightful writings in prose and verse have made his

reputation national, has achieved his master stroke of genius in this

historical novel of revolutionary days in the West."

The Denver Daily News says:

"There are three great chapters of fiction: Scott's tournament on Ashby

field, General Wallace's chariot race, and now Maurice Thompson's duel

scene and the raising of Alice's flag over old Fort Vincennes."

The Chicago Times-Herald says:

"More original than 'Richard Carvel,' more cohesive than 'To Have and To

Hold,' more vital than 'Janice Meredith,' such is Maurice Thompson's

superb American romance, 'Alice of Old Vincennes.' It is, in addition,

more artistic and spontaneous than any of its rivals."

VIRGINIA HARNED EDITION

12mo., with six illustrations drawn by F. C. Yohn and a frontispiece in

color by Howard Chandler Christy

Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A STORY BY THE "MARCH KING"

THE FIFTH STRING

By JOHN PHILIP SOUSA

The "March King" has written much in a musical way, but "The Fifth

String" is his first published story. In the choice of his subject, as

the title indicates, Mr. Sousa has remained faithful to his art; and the

great public, that has learned to love him for the marches he has made,

will be as delighted with his pen as with his baton.

"The Fifth String" has a strong and clearly defined plot which shows in

its treatment the author's artistically sensitive temperament and his

tremendous dramatic power. It is a story of a marvelous violin, of a

wonderful love and of a strange temptation.

A cover, especially designed, and six full-page illustrations by Howard

Chandler Christy, serve to give the distinguishing decorative

embellishments that this first book by Mr. Sousa so richly deserves.

With Pictures by Howard Chandler Christy

12 mo. Price, $1.25

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"A NOVEL THAT'S WORTH WHILE"

THE REDEMPTION OF DAVID CORSON

By CHARLES FREDERIC GOSS

A Mid-century American Novel of Intense Power and Interest

The Interior says:

"This is a book that is worth while. Though it tells of weakness and

wickedness, of love and license, of revenge and remorse in an intensely

interesting way, yet it is above all else a clean and pure story. No one

can read it and honestly ask 'what's the use.'"

Newell Dwight Hillis, Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, says;

"'The Redemption of David Corson' strikes a strong, healthy, buoyant

note."

Dr. F. W. Gunsaulus, President Armour Institute, says:

"Mr. Goss writes with the truthfulness of light. He has told a story in

which the fact of sin is illuminated with the utmost truthfulness and the

fact of redemption is portrayed with extraordinary power. There are lines

of greatness in the book which I shall never forget."

President M. W. Stryker, Hamilton College, says:

"It is a victory in writing for one whose head seems at last to have

matched his big human heart. There is ten times as much of reality in it

as there is in 'David Harum,' which does not value lightly that admirable

charcoal sketch."

Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"THE MERRIEST NOVEL OF MANY, MANY MOONS."

MY LADY PEGGY GOES TO TOWN

By FRANCES AYMAR MATHEWS

The Daintiest and Most Delightful Book of the Season.

A heroine almost too charming to be true is Peggy, and it were a churlish

reader who is not, at the end of the first chapter, prostrate before her

red slippers.--Washington Post.

To make a comparison would be to rank "My Lady Peggy" with "Monsieur

Beaucaire" in points of attraction, and to applaud as heartily as that

delicate romance, this picture of the days "When patches nestled o'er

sweet lips at chocolate times."--N. Y. Mail and Express.

12 mo. Beautifully illustrated and bound.

Price, $1.25 net

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"AS CRISP AND CLEAN CUT AS A NEW MINTAGE."

THE PUPPET CROWN

BY HAROLD MacGRATH

A princess rarely beautiful; a duchess magnificent and heartless; a

villain revengeful and courageous; a hero youthful, humorous, fearless and

truly American;--such are the principal characters of this delightful

story.--Syracuse Post-Standard.

Harold MacGrath has attained the highest point achievable in recent

fiction. We have the climax of romance and adventure in "The Puppet

Crown."--The Philadelphia North American.

Superior to most of the great successes.--St. Paul Pioneer Press.

"The Puppet Crown" is a profusion of cleverness.--Baltimore American.

Challenges comparison with authors whose names have

become immortal--Chicago American.

Latest entry in the list of winners.--Cleveland World.

With illustrations by R. Martine Reay

12mo. Price, $1.50.

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"AN ADMIRABLE SOCIAL STUDY"

THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN

By HAROLD BEGBIE

The purpose of this brilliant story of modern English life is to show that

a human being, well brought-up, carefully trained in the outward

observances of religion, with a keen intellectual perception of the

difference between right and wrong, may still not have goodness, and that

ambition may easily become the dominating force in such a character. So

the book may be called a purpose novel, but in reading it, one no more

thinks of applying so discredited an epithet to it than one would think of

applying it to "Vanity Fair."

The author possesses an admirable style, clear, unaffected, strong. To the

discriminating public, the book is certain to give far more pleasure than

that public usually gets from a new novel.

With a Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert

Cloth, 12 mo. Ornamental, $1.25 Net.

Postage, 12 Cents

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

FULL OF INCIDENT, ACTION & COLOR

LIKE ANOTHER HELEN

By GEORGE HORTON

Mr. Horton's powerful romance stands in a new field and brings an almost

unknown world in reality before the reader--the world of conflict between

Greek and Turk.

The island of Crete seems real and genuine after reading this book; not a

mere spot on the map. The tragic and pathetic troubles of this people are

told with sympathetic force.

Mr. Horton employs a vivid style that keeps the interest alive and many

passages are filled with delicate poetic feeling.

Things happen and the story moves. The characters are well conceived and

are human and convincing. Beyond question Mr. Horton's fine story is

destined to take high rank among the books of the day.

With illustrations by C. M. Relyea

12mo, Cloth bound

Price, $1.50

The Chicago Times-Herald says:

"Here are chapters that are Stephen Crane plus sympathy; chapters of

illuminated description fragrant with the atmosphere of art."

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"A CHRONICLE OF MARVELS"

THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON

By H. G. WELLS

Author of "The War of the Worlds" and "Tales of Time and Space."

Mr. Wells writes to entertain and in this tale of the invention of

"cavorite," and the subsequent remarkable journey made to the moon by

its inventor, he has succeeded beyond measure in alternately astounding,

convincing and delighting his readers. Told in a straightforward way, with

an air of ingenuousness that disarms doubt, the story chronicles most

marvelous discoveries and adventures on the mysterious planet. Mr.

Hering's many illustrations are admirable. Altogether the book is one of

the most original and entertaining volumes that has appeared in many a

day.

Profusely Illustrated by E. Hering

12mo., cloth, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"AN INDIANA LOVE STORY"

ROSALYNDE'S LOVERS

By MAURICE THOMPSON

Author of "Alice of Old Vincennes"

As Mr. Thompson avers, this is "only a love story," but it is a story of

such sweetness and wholesome life that it will at once claim a permanent

home in our affections. The love of nature, so prominent a characteristic

of Mr. Thompson, is reflected throughout and the thunderstorm and

following gleam of sun, the country garden and southern lake are each in

turn invested with a personality that wins our instant sympathy. Rosalynde

Banderet is winsome and artless, her lovers are human and manly, and her

final happiness is ours. Mr. Peirson's many pictures are entirely worthy.

With many Illustrations and Decorations by G. Alden Peirson

Ornamental 12mo. Cloth Bound, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL HISTORICAL NOVEL

THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED

By HARRIS DICKSON

From the Boston Globe:

"A vigorous tale of France in the old and new world during the reign of

Louis XIV."

From the Philadelphia Press:

"As delightfully seductive as certain mint-flavored beverages they make

down South."

From the Los Angeles Herald:

"The sword-play is great, even finer than the pictures in 'To Have and To

Hold.'"

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

"As fine a piece of sustained adventure as has appeared in recent

fiction."

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat:

"There is action, vivid description and intensely dramatic situations."

From the Indianapolis News:

"So full of tender love-making, of gallant fighting, that one regrets

it's no longer."

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. Price $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"IN LONDON OF LONG AGO"

THE FICKLE WHEEL

By HENRY THEW STEPHENSON

In this tale of merry England, of the time when Shakespeare jested and Ben

Johnson blustered, Mr. Stephenson has painted for us a picture informing

and above all entertaining. His is not a story of counts and crowns, but

of the ever interesting common people. Without seeming to do so the author

shows us many interesting bits of the life of the day. We go to Paul's

walk, we see Shakespeare play at the Globe theatre and other such glimpses

of old time London are deftly added to our experiences. Throughout the

book is an evanescent charm, a spirit of wholesome gaiety. It is well

worth while.

With illustrations by C. M. Relyea

Cloth, Ornamental, 12 mo. Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A FINE STORY OF THE COWBOY AT HIS BEST

WITH HOOPS of STEEL

By FLORENCE FINCH KELLY

"The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy

soul with hoops of steel"

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

"Western men and women will read it because it paints faithfully the life

which they know so well, and because it gives us three big, manly fellows,

fine types of the cowboy at his best. Eastern readers will be attracted by

its splendid realism."

From Julian Hawthorne:

"For my own part, I finished it all in one day, and dreamt it over again

that night. And I am an old hand, heaven knows."

From the Denver Times:

"Mrs. Kelly's characters stand out from the background of the New Mexican

plains, desert and mountain with all the distinctness of a Remington

sketch."

With six illustrations, in color, by Dan Smith

Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

"DIFFICULT TO FORGET"

A FEARSOME RIDDLE

By MAX EHRMAN

This mystery story, based on the theory of the arithmetical rhythm of

time, contains much of the same fascination that attaches to the tales of

Poe. Simply told, yet dramatic and powerful in its unique conception, it

has a convincing ring that is most impressive. The reader can not evade a

haunting conviction that this wonderful experiment must in reality have

taken place. Delightful to read, difficult to forget, the book must evoke

a wide discussion.

With Pictures by Virginia Keep

12 mo. Cloth, $1.00

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A NOVEL OF EARLY NEW YORK

PATROON VAN VOLKENBERG

By HENRY THEW STEPHENSON

From the New York Press:

"Many will compare 'Patroon Van Volkenberg,' with its dash, style and

virility, with 'Richard Carvel,' and in that respect they will be right,

as one would compare the strong, sturdy and spreading elm with a slender

sapling."

The action of this stirring story begins when New York was a little city

of less than 5,000 inhabitants.

The Governor has forbidden the port to the free traders or pirate ships,

which sailed boldly under their own flag; while the Patroon and his

merchant colleagues not only traded openly with the buccaneers, but owned

and managed such illicit craft. The story of the clash of these

conflicting interests and the resulting exciting happenings is absorbing.

The atmosphere of the tale is fresh in fiction, the plot is stirring and

well knit, and the author is possessed of the ability to write forceful,

fragrant English.

From the Brooklyn Standard-Union:

"The tale is one of vibrant quality. It can not be read at a leisurely

pace. It bears the reader through piratical seas and buccaneering

adventures, through storm and stress of many sorts, but it lands him

safely, and leads him to peace."

12mo, Illustrated in color by C. M. Relyea

Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A STORY OF THE MORGAN RAID, DURING THE WAR OF THE REBELLION

THE LEGIONARIES

By HENRY SCOTT CLARK

The Memphis Commercial-Appeal says:

"The backbone of the story is Morgan's great raid--one of the most

romantic and reckless pieces of adventure ever attempted in the history of

the world. Mr. Clark's description of the Ride of the Three Thousand is a

piece of literature that deserves to live; and is as fine in its way as

the chariot race from 'Ben Hur.'"

The Cincinnati Commercial-Tribune says:

"'The Legionaries' is pervaded with what seems to be the true spirit of

artistic impartiality. The author is simply a narrator. He stands aside,

regarding with equal eye all the issues involved and the scales dip not in

his hands. To sum up, the first romance of the new day on the Ohio is an

eminently readable one--a good yarn well spun."

The Rochester Herald says:

"The appearance of a new novel in the West marks an epoch in fiction

relating to the war between the sections for the preservation of the

Union. 'The Legionaries' is a remarkable book, and we can scarcely credit

the assurance that it is the work of a new writer."

12mo, illustrated, Price, $1.50

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

A STORY TOLD BY A REAL STORYTELLER

A SON OF AUSTERITY

By GEORGE KNIGHT

Mr. Knight has created a real atmosphere for his men and women to breathe,

and his men and women take deep breaths. They are alive, they are human,

they are real.

He has a delightful story to tell and knows how to tell it. It is a story

of human life, of possible people in possible situations, living out their

little span of life in that state in which it has pleased God to call

them.

The reader realizes at once that Mr. Knight is a man who served his seven

years of apprenticeship before opening a shop on his own account.

The deftness and charm of his literary style, combined with the absorbing

interest of the story, can not but prove a delight to every reader.

With a frontispiece by Harrison Fisher

12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50

The Liverpool Mercury says:

"This is a book far removed from the ordinary mass of featureless

fiction. There is no gainsaying the strength of characterization and the

command of English language."

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis

VIGOROUS, ELEMENTAL, DRAMATIC

A HEART OF FLAME

The story of a Master Passion

BY CHARLES FLEMING EMBREE

Author of "A Dream of a Throne."

The men and women in this story are children of the soil. Their strength

is in their nearness to nature. Their minds are vigorous, their bodies

powerful, their passions elemental, their courage sublime. They are loyal

in friendship, persistent in enmity, determined in purpose.

The story is a story of great wrongs and of supreme love. It is done in

black and white, with few strokes, but they are masterly. The shadows at

the back are somber but the value of contrast is appreciated for the vivid

high light in the foreground.

It is a work of art--powerful, convincing and abiding. Powerful, because

true to life; convincing, for it has the saving touch of humor; and

abiding because love, like "A Heart of Flame," prevails in the end.

With illustrations by Dan Smith

12mo. cloth. Price, $1.50.

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis