Evening Star Newspaper, September 24, 1898, Page 16

f THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1898-24 PAGES. Koelse) (se) arn * WRITTEN FOR THE EVENING e in the middle of of chess—he is good enough to the fool, play the best gam: teau's company—when can! » Demoiselle Alys to say that s followed upon him and bade eak with her. mistress, and! bravely € pit and I butterfly, that i_—_ arr: my ly men are in cou! igh, when t ain behind stripling and a struck me on the Demoiselle Alys great nosegay of her and her birth of it on her which were blue her green sili but her ro: Demoiselle Alys was the mer- ladies. When she was no ionger »le I held her upon my kne er that she laughed long b rned speak—though — sh¢ now, be kind the that cowers in a corner. Was the red king ing, father “No: he was los confoundedly, and hadst thou not come my cap. sighed and tucked the red king in n Of her frock. Then her f: ead cleared. > fore you,” at ¢ we could, look- ack at us. Wit, What a council we mak: contain great things.” would, wert thou downstairs d Fr. Benoit. She mad: a little eur Motley,” demanded she of me what is the saddest thing in chirped the Demoiselie thing in the world is thou know of such?” asked and laid the bunch of roses are faded already ud. fis the same with ather; let it but He a moment and it is withered. Som “But tf TS are not thy friends, said Fr still art thou not frie less. Fi thy father and mothe d thy kinsmen. Weil, then—I have friends!" she poute ver have aught that I desir. emember thy failing of thy | said Fr. Benoit, quietly. ‘Then thou hast forgot the day I 1 and the merchant came « I cried for th to have them. sald the priest, “not to b Demo! born a dem- le Alys, “and I is it now?" I t in, being in silence. fore blue puppet dressed in velvet? Or my bauble; it goes equally h motley or petticoat!” she said, saucily, vanquished me, sh ked at us with stran; and shook her hi » to shrive there!” Fr. Bi ly, but she shook her little ast. Come, I N the wind "s sails.” out of thy C I can make them for myself,” she an: swered, then looked up with brightenc che>ks and eyes. “Dost know my bow woman. Rosali she asked of Fr. B noit. H ent. “She is in lov the foolfsh w This time it wishes to be ma Demoiselle Alys, who nodded. “And she uded tied, Bravely. “Well, feld Fr. Sunday. ne’ the ak to me of it.” Benoit. “I will rsad the banns on Whom doth she wish to marry?” Our demoiselle looked at us with steady eyes. “The Sieur d’Audilly.” Wow this Sieur d'Audilly was newly be- OWE OOO OOOO OOO 3 THE RED KING, ———— (Copyright, 1898, the $. 8. McClure Co.) : | not the heart to re WOMEN AS STAR BY GEORGIANA EVANS. (se, WON IWOW IE ONE NOE WOON come the captain of monseigneur’s arque- brsieurs, and was as wild, >vil-nam handsome a good-for-nothing as ever on ceuld find in a year’s journey. Tales of his doings had come before him to the tle, for he was indeed but a stranger among u: and though I took note that they more con- cerned his conquests among the petticoats than victories over men with good weapons in their sneur, who thinks ny degree a part of his 1 so he counted this young blood) s in their v vices, had said s the man to make a valiant ed captain in truth he sur would not wish his ca toop to his daughter's And yet, being abie, it would un ver women are become amt my day, and i mo id I. ther Benoit puffed out lip : id nothing. “BAUBLE, SALUTE! ture’s back, and the low thunder to rumble in his throat, and the gallant captain push- ed him away with a look of-relief that he had me to turn on. ‘Weill, Cockcomb, where hast been crowing now?” “Over a strange nest, Peacock!” He drew his brows together. “True, it is midsummer!” he sneered. “In midsummer, gossip,” said I to mon- signeur, “peacocks mate with doves, didst know that?” “Eh? How?" asked he, smiling. But I saw by the captain's angry eyes that I was too careless. “The reason of that riddle we will lay before the king next week,” I answered, lamely enough. But he was silent, while the Sieur d’Audilly talked of a new project he had for lightening his men’s gear. It was with a beating heart that, as soon as the great hall was dark and quiet that night, up Fr. Benoit's stair I sped to find him pacing to and fro like a bear in a pit. He looked up sharply as I entered, but spoke no word, and I flung myself into his great chair, stretched out my legs and sighed. ‘“‘Heigho! with such a chair as this to wait in, no wonder thy soul is stored nce.” said he, sharply, “is it quiet be- “As quiet as thy conscience.” He ceased walking, and came to me and stood before me, opening and closing his lips as if he wished to speak; his fat face was pale, his lips dry. Before he could find a word there was a light rap at the door. TI sprang to fling it open, but no one was to be seen. A small t lay upon the threshold, and I brought it to the taper's flame and held it for Benoit to see. It was the chess- red king. fly that it He put it away from him fell and bounded on the floor and rolied away into a corner. “We had best go down now,” said he. I took the taper and went before, winding bauble’s head in my mantle that the bells might not sound. At the chapel door a woman's figure stood CRIED SHE. to marry above one’s station,” snapped the Demoiselle Alys. “No,” I returned, “it is good to see an arquebusier with a fine aim.” For, as | said, F a good girl. Our flushed scarlet, and her biue eyes shone like angry stars. “Who dares say ill of the Sieur d’Audilly “All France and the maiden’s ut I like to see thee defend thy not my Kinsman!” she cried. “His ter married the brother of my at is not kindred! ps, since he is to marry thy bower woman! She looked , and drew in her breath hard, but did not answer me ther,” said she to the priest, marry them, wilt thou not? 1 came to as “What! W cried Father Bi art the maddest maiden! I mz ther’s captain to thy bower wo! ? thee back to thy roses and let me talk with thy father.” In a minute son her knees by his his hand in both of hers, and her blue and cooing voice hard at work. “‘Fa- , thou cruel! (as uid consent) And they so—so mi Thou t Didst thou and my prayers so good the ach me my m and I save, of And I hav | father, dearest, 1 know thou wilt not re fuse! And thou canst marry them in \ minute, an vill never tell. And they | —they love other! ther, when have [1 be > be Oh, thou shait dh, thoa art an angel and a dear,” s “I always said thou wert indeed Oh, I will pray every night for th to be mad We both started. ‘thy Rosalind is not more over the dairy siil.’” “Tonight,” said Father Benoit, to show how vaii it was to try to corrupt him, “is an utterly unsuitable, Impossible time.” “Oh, father! Dost wish me to think thee no better than 2 beast? And thou so good. I think my heart will break!” And a tear h,” said I, sty than a cat fell upon the good priest's hand, a tear directly by a pair of soft lips. thei there!” cried he, blushing very a promise—I promise to marry the dauphin to the kitchen maid, and the to the stuble boy—only get thee gone out of this quict place! Thou art the willful- lest, most sh. ss maid! Get thee gone I will make thee a discipline my next leis- go straightaw: said the Demoi- ys, Springing up, with dancing ey shaking back her brown hair with a ripple of laughter. “Oh, but thou art a very dear! 1 will send thee a token tonight, and thou wilt fine Ro: bride?” I a not attend ked. the very child er brows together, but did not Thou needst not fear, father: t answer me. {there will be horses waiting, and the ne day who will know if they have been mar- d or not? ‘Truly, a fine plan!” I could not help say- Ing. “And—an . father, all her js all I came to say.” s left us without another word, careiess of the roses she had let fall beside the chess table. Only, as I held back the arras for her, and unjatched the door, she looked up at me, not unkindly, but in silence. I watched ker little figure out of sight down the winding stair before I came into the room again, and then Father Benolt had gathered up ail the fading roses and put them on the table beside the huddled chess- men. “Shall we finish the game, father? have forgot how the pieces stood. “Besides, she hath taken the red king.” “Vv and he began to fumble his f hours for the office of Tierc “Rosalind,” quoth I, “is a comely maid to lock upon.” “I am not a fool to hear such things,” re- plied Fr. Benoit, ver} quickly for one in- tent upon Tierce. “But it can do thee no harm to hear that a well-conducted maid, but quie| answer. “Well, father—a man can die but once— but he can be often whipped.” “I do not see how that concerns me,” re- turned Fr. Benoit, his eyes on his book. father,” said I, taking up my I wish with all my heart that may have a wider wisdom than gown and scapular. And though a cocks- comb in sits more lightly than a miter aving it Fr. Benoit fie “Fool,” said he, “thou hast thy belly full because thy head is empty, but I am not thy paymaster. Here in this turret thou art at liberty to rest thy tongue gratis.” “Father,” I replied, “it is a pleasure to me to enlighten so apt a scnolar. God send thee a life as long as thy sermons, and somewhat more cheerful." And I went singing down the stairs to rally monsig- neur, and get him in good trim for his next week's visit from the king. Beside his chair stood the Sieur d’Audilly, teasing a great hound. As I came up the hair was beginning to rise aleng the crea- peering for our light. She was wrapped in a long cloak, but the hood was pushed back, and the taper me lit clear ind full, the comely fe: alind, My heart leaped up, and Fr. a long breath. os oit drew t me light thee, good Fool,” said i aking the taper from my hand. an a smart spesch, out of my new ng, about a fair Psyche lighting a y pair of antique Cupids—but all con- fused because my heart was so light. Just as our hands met me one jo me from behind, and 1 mbled against Rosalind, so awkwardly that my bauble dingled, suikily under my cloak, and the girl, to save herself from falling, drop the taper ard startea back. A foot was set on the light ard it went out; we were all in the dark till I gi oped for the chapel deor and flung it open. yen then the light was dim, and I ce barely distin- guish Rosalird’s figure; had meekly coy ing red her he the chapel, @ with her he she don _enter- an did not fling it back, altnough the Sieur @Audilly stepped ferth to meet us. So straight and tail and fine 2 showed, even in the 1, that I could not » though I loved him not, sto for ¥ to 1, foc a aught a fool, look her men. Fo! but a caged fox, who pays for his ire of the kennel’s leavings by strange praises of his trap. The two went up to the altar rail and knelt, and Fr. Benoit came out in sur- and motioned me forward. age a wedding. No no gay company, no ‘ess but one, and that a fool; the groom yidier of fortune, and the bride—Oh, od forgive-us for that night's work! were soon married, and we four Were again outside the chapel doo nd stealing through ges of the chateau that led to the courtyard. For neither Fr. Benoit nor I were minded to let the young couple, however illmated, go forth into the great world without a word of godspeed nor a hand to wave adieu, The great door was guarded by a drowsy Man-at-arms, but I thrust the other back in the darkness and clapped the guard on the shoulder, with a shout, “Hola, Loys! Break tryst and let me out!’ He sprang up with a howl of dismay, but, recognizing me, sank down again with a gruat. “hy place is in bed, lucky fo ‘ats, owls and likewise birds need no sleep, my dormouse. And look you, there is a maid in the village keeping vigil for want of a song under her window.” “Oh, Gh! And this a sober househotd!” “Leave homilies to the fat shaveling in the turret,” said I, relishing this prick at Fr. Benoit, which for once he dared not return. “Thy business is to open doors.” “Or to keep them shut!’ “Eh?” tell thee, I will not!” On! “Why should I, fool?” “Because doors are made to open, car- rions’ meat, and because bauble Is as good a switch as the flat of thy lord's sword!” And I rattled the bells of my bauble in his face with a shrill laugh, for I heard whis- pering in the shadow and wished not that it should reach his ears. He began to argue—that is, to curse—and I was at a less what to do when something small hit me on the cheek and jingled on the floor. It was a plece of money, flung by Fr. Be- reit I was certain, and I began to grum- ble. ‘There, I have lost the shining fel- low that was to keep watch with thee till his brother flew to meet him on my return!” Loys caught the bait at once, and flung the door wide, letting in the moonlight, which fell in a great square on the stone ficor, and showed me the gold piece lying just below me. I put my foot on it as Loys went on his knees to peer about, and began to talk aloud and rattle my bells, and point out nothing in the shad- ows, so that under cover of my noise and his abstraction my three might slip out. ‘This they did while Loys’ back was turned, and as soon as I saw them well across the courtyard I kicked the coin into Loys’ face, sprang out, dragged the door shut wit reat noise and sped after them. I was almost at their heeis—thinking all safe, for I knew that the Sieur d’Audilly had the key to the postern in his pouch— when a shout behind stopped me, and I saw the door standing open and Loys run- ning after me, shouting at the top of his lungs: “Treachery, treachery! A’mol, a moi! Halt there!” The others had stopped hort at the sound of his voice, but it was out of sheer bewilderme For one moment their shapes stood out clear and sharp in the moonlight, then they, turned and began to run again, the girl between the other two, each with a hand in hers. Seeing that they would not stay, Loys, hurriedly ad- justing his arquebuse, fired upon them. Now, whether it was that his aim, being without a staff on which to rest his heavy arquebuse, was unsteady, or whether he id this horrible thing With full intent I dc not know—but the bolt sped straight at the slender, muffled, woman-shape between the two men. Sne flung out her two hands, and fell without a cry. The blood hot in me, I ran back to Loys, and sprang upon him, forcing him to the ground under my knee, while I felt for my dagger. Excited as I was, I could not find ft, so I had to strangle him with my bands, he gurgling horribly, and jerking out his arms vainly to reach his sword. But Iam wiry man, and it did not take long. He daughtlat my arms once or twice =then I shook him off and went to Fr. Benoit, who knelt alone, bending over the girl’s body. Without a word, but shivering like a man.in an ague, he drew back her hood, and the moonlight streamed full upon her face. Tt was the Demoiselle Alys. She was not quite dead. Her heart moved feebly and her ayelids fluttered, but there was a dark wet,stain upon the brolderies of her dress, where the mantle fell back, and it grew largér as we gazed. ““Water,"* said’(Fr, Benoit. I went to where, just-inside the postern gate played a little foumtain with a cup and a statue of our lady. I wrenched the cup free, filled it and began to mutter prayers and curses, ali mingled together in my falling tears. The gate Was open and through it I saw a figure studdimg down the hill like a scared rabyit. It, was the Sieur d’Audilly. So we had married her to a craven and killed her into the bargain; the one deed balanced the other. The tears dried on my hot face as I hurried back with the brim- ming cup. The alarm of Loys had wakened no one, and the court was as still as death as we bathed her white face and forced a little of the water hetween her lips. Down in the valley a horse neighed as it parted company with its fellow. In a moment she opened her eyes amd said clearly, seeming to re- call everything at once: “I am dying. Where is he? Fr. Benoi Gen. Sumner the city, and he knew that the sentries uld bo on the lookout for him. At the palace he saw the general's own horse, with general officer’s saddie- pad and all. Dismounting, he quickly tied his pony in place of the horse, and, bestrid- ing the latter animal, rode out of town. At the picket Benson rode straight for a sentry and said: “You tell the officer of the guard for me that I saw the man who passed himself off for me riding slowly out of town on a pony. Arrest him and have him brought to my tent as soon as he gets here.”” All unsuspecting, the sentry saluted, and Benson rode boldly on, turning the horse leose just before he got to the camp of his troop. Meantime, Gen. Sumner, having finished his business, left the palace and looked for his horse. He was nowhere to be found, and, after waiting for an hour, he decided that the animal must have broken loose and gone back to camp, so he appropriated the Spanish pony, naturally supposing that it belonged to some Spanish prisoner, and intending to send it back that night. Reach- ing the provost picket, he was halted, and, despite his irate protests, was arrested and taken before the officer of tho guard, who, recognizing him, released him. The gen- eral rode off, vowing vengeance on the man who stole his horse, but it is interesting to relate that when he cooled down, and when Benson was discovered and brought before him, he only reprimanded him severely, and after the trooper's departure laughed heartily at the trick. On July 2 the fight at San Juan was say- atts vas working, and fat face was ed by the coolness and courage of Capt. L. the chased each other down his W. V. Ki : oe ‘ Come nea ; Kennon, who fs weil known to the puna cheeks. He looked a people of Washiigton, he having been on ‘ nee words, I took | duty at the War Department for two years. ae PeRA onde Minced ak Ee. ia deud: | Sheth, Neen and Sq" weynler anette Were brigaded tcgether, and together ap. pr ched that ayful hill at San Juan. Ow ing to the nature of the ground it was ini possible thit any brigade, regimental or battalion formation, could be preserv. ard company commanders were compeiied to use their own judgment to a very great extent. Kennon, who is six feet four irches tall, and a strikingly handsome man sin command of BD’ Company. After i the dreaded “Hell's Hole,” the at the foot of the hill, and’ after a third of his company mowed dewn by the hailstorm of shot and shell, he halted his company at the base of the hill for a moment's rest before beginning madame. 5 She never doubted me. A bright stile shone on her little face, and her slender limbs relaxed. I lifted her in my arms, und Fr. Benoit began the short absolution through his tea As he lifted his hand she raised her head on my arm, and looke da straight up between us and beyond. She closed her ey again, and we ought her dead, but she opened them once more and smiled upon us, just as she had smiled over her roses that Very da “I hope you have not lost the red king,”” said she, quite in her old voice. “You are both so ‘eless—but lost or found, he is still the red king—was it not 4’ brave | the steep ascenen Guetta ore sted ki a noe oe en a general offi- Heer etre g ee eee Wan ce Sees bear | SoCs aidiealloped down) tha ines with ore ders to fall back. Kennon’s men were lying down. Looking around, he saw that ecmpany commanders were’ preparing to obey the order, and, summoning his first liectenant (his second lieutenant had been kiiled), he bade him go to all of the com- pany commaaders in sight and tell them that the hill could be carried by a contin- uation of the charge, and, without await- ing a reply, he got in front of his men, and, misty, her body became heavy m my arms and it was over. So died the Demoiselle Alys, who was the brightest, merriest lady, and whom I held on my knee before ever she Was so long as my bauble. Fr. Benoit rose, his wet face shining in the moonlight, and motioned me to follow him—we were both past speech--and I car- ried her back, through the great door, | waving his harts, cried. along the passages of the great silent Now, lads, let’s get their flag. Come on house, groping our way. for we had ro | and drive the devils out of tha nd stumbling in the s. Once I felt something touch me, and heard a dog's snifiling at my burden; the creature seemed to understand, nined, very softly, and follow ng along behind Where, as no one back, he cami sometimes With a yell like that of a Apaches, the men started, and other com- band of | panies followed. Kennon was the first American officer to reach the summtt aliv: and a roll call of his company showed that out of the forty men he started with he | had only twenty-one left. in, whining as| In his official report Maj. Miner has rec- > Demoiselle Alys upon the step | ommended Capt. Kennon’ for a medal of ore the altar rail, where she had knelt | kenor for “extreme and cohspicuous ga!- as a bride not n hour before. lantry at the battle of San Juan.” We fell on our knees, Fr. Benoit and J, —_ and yed while the moonlight crept OFFICER OF THE DECK. round the pillars, and grew faint in the western windows, and the eastern window The Position Carries Many Import- ant and Responsible Duties. From the New York Herald. hed, and the birds be- eaves. I, the fool, Benoit, and the dog—well, . of us, unlike Sieur d’Audilly was f at the rate of five leagues an hour. Was mourned the Demoiselle Alys, s I said, Was the merriest lady, and © was the length of my bu wer as blue as pansies—only 2 pansies are purple, but her eyes were he kind that are blue. 05 ON THE WAR, Immediately upon stepping on board of a man-of-war a visitor sees an officer with a sword belt on walking up and down the quarter deck. Officers and sailors come u to this man so sprucely rigged out, in Als neat, handsome uniform, touch their caps to him, ask him questions, give him in- formation and receive orders from him, and then they go away from him and he paces his lonely beat, for he is the man who is on watch, who while holding this positior has the charge of the ship. He is the “ofli- cer of the deck.” His position is one of extreme responsibil- ity. He is held accountable for the safety of the ship and everything and everybody on board her. Every officer or other per- son in the ship, whatever may ‘be his rank, who ts subject to the orders of the captain, LIGH' SIDE Interesting Reminiscences by a Vet- eran of the Santiago Campaign. Written for The Evening Star, ! How that name will haunt the mem of am yc a brave American a1 die ‘The! thoughts revived by the men- tion of it are faf from pleasant, even in tha minds of thgy who were. fortunate enough to keep away from its yellow fever Sibone: ; except the executive officer, the officer who hospital, but to those who entered its por-] yanks second to the captain, is subordinate tals and eScaped’ the word will bring officer of the deck. suy recollecttons such as are 2xperi- officer of the d cannot leave his until he is regularly relieved by some other officer, whose turn it is to as- sume the responsiWility, and he is strictly prohibited by the rule and regulations 7 ergaging in any occupation which tract his attention from his duty. his apparent dislike to engage in uon, to crack a joke, to smile or enced by but few himas beings. ‘Tne death rate in the hospital wa terrific. Phe motto of the With U. Ss. airy (colored), “{ don’t care if 1 never come back,” migit weil be adepted by the pa- Uient entering there fer treatment. Men died vy the dozens, aye, scores, not : in ones or twos. It took halt a company | 4 part of his duty is to be polite, thouzh ot infautry to carry out the corpses and | not necessarily agreeable, the law govern- dig graves. Malaria, dysentery, dengue and | ing this phase of his conduct reading as eee cine ages : sa had | fellows: “He shall see that all person ee | ceemlng slonenide or Ynlune Ge ehin caped Maus2r bullets. Two hundred and | Courteously treated.” “Of cause henwone y-nine men were carried out to the un] personally attend, except casually, to the provised graveyard. Graves were dug ahead | reception of the ‘hundreds of people Ww of ume. From icn to fuitzen yawning holes | visit the ship. He delegates this sort duty to the me have themselv. oro) and decently. The officer of the deck isthe one man in the ship for the time being on whom de- volves the respoasibility of properly con- ducting the i aining to the wel- fare of the small world living within the vessel. For four hours this position of dig- nity d importance is hi Then he goes off, and some other man succeeds to the hardships of the office. he and ry Were always kept open and ready lor patients who were sure to fill them, two cuilins did duty for each and e funeral. it happened in this wise. The quarter- master had only two coffins in Cuba, and tbey were sent to the Siboney hospital. As patients would shuffle off this mortal coil the attendants would bring in ths coftins atoresaid, put the dead heroes into them, lay the dead heroes’ blankets over the top and start for the graveyard. At the grave the deceased soldier would be lifted from the collin, rolled up in his blanket and buried, the coffins going back to the hos- pital for further duty. Yes, decidedly, Siboney hell-hole, Obituaries in the West. From the Kansas City Star. “We,” remarks 2 Missouri editor, “are getting a little tired of this life insurance busin When a man dies nowadays the first thing they ask is: ‘Was he insured, and for how much? The papers also gen- erally wind up the obituary notice with the amount of insurance. Soon the obituary ices d something like this: ‘Peter q left a wife and two chil- ully covered by insurance.’ Or, not insured, it will read about as follow ‘John Smith is dead. He leaves a wife. ‘Total loss; no insurance.’ ” ———_~+e- A German Rough Rider. From Fliegende Blatter. was an awful First Sergeant Ryan of Company D, 10th S. Infantry, was shot in the fight of A Mauser bullet shattered his right ankle and another grazed the other ankle, drawing considerable blood, but inflicting only a very slight wound. The first wound was serious. Ryan was ordered to the rear, and by pure American grit managed to keep alive while he crawled eight miles to the litue Cuban town of Siboney. The exposure and the fever from his’ wound | brought on the climatic fever, and just as the brave fellow reached the hospital he fainted. The next thing he knew was a realization that some one was handling the foot which had been only grazed, and upon opening his eyes he saw a young contract doctor about to begin amputating the leg just be- low the knee. Giving a great kick, Ryan yelled: “D—n you, do the wrong foot.’ Sure enough, the physician, in hs haste, being unaccustomed to scenes of carnage, had made a mistake in the foot. The inci- dent proved to be Ryan’s salvation, for he refused to allow any foot to be severed and is today convalescent and doing duty at Fort Sill, Okla. + you are going to cut off After the final surrender the 234 Michi- gan Volunteers were doing guard duty as a provost guard between the camp of the American troops and Santiago. They had instructions not € allow any enlisted men to pass, an@ no? officers, except general officers, unless they earried passes signed by the commander of their division. The pickets of thé pro\ost guard were mounted on captured Spanish ponies in order to en- able them toleover more ground, thus less- ening the numbenof pickets required. Rach picket was supposed to know all general officers by sight and pass them without halting them. In Troop By 1st‘U. S. Cavalry, there was a trooper named Benson, who had made up his mind that hemust see and visit the town he had helped to capture. Finally, ho hit upon a seheme. He had been told that he was a “dead‘'ringer” for Brig. Gen. “Sammy” Sifinnet,’ formerly of Fort Myer. Now, Sumner, bélng an old Indian came palgner, wore no“Insignia of rank save a star on eack''side"of the collar of his blue shirt. His @ttire was a pair of blue jean overalls, a Big sombrero and a blue flan- nel shirt. Benson procured two gold stars which had been worn by some Spanish officer (all Spanish officers wore stars on their sleeves) and, sewing them on his shirt collar, ap- proached a sentry. He sat “Sentry, my horse has just thrown me and I must take yours, for Gen. Shafter has sent for me and I have no time to go back to camp for another mount.” ‘The sentry hesitated. Assuming a flerce mein Benson said: “Well, do I get that Rorse? I am Gen. Sumner =, Convinced, the sentry Gismounted and al- lewed Benson to take the pony..’Benson went off to the eity, had a good time, and toward evening began to think of return- irg. He knew that his ruse had been dis- covered before this, because he had seen BURGLARS OF PARIS Must Be Gentlemen of “Parts” to Rob City Houses. THE ART OF THE ACTOR IS NEEDED Thieves of the Night and Their Many Disguises. MAKE THE LAW HELP ae Special Correspondence of The Evening Star. PARIS, September 15, 1898. The thieves who break through and steal so frequently in Paris form a professionai body with several branches. First, there is the plundering of summer Villas in the suburbs during the winter sea- son, when they are left unoccupied. Then, in the city, there is the looting of apart- ments or houses from which the inhabitants chance to be absent. After this, in order of importance, comes the getting away by right with the stock in trade of some small shopkeeper. Finally, there is the vulgar breaking into rooms by day or night and making cff speedily with whatever the thief d to lay his hands on. Great bank s and feats of sate-breaking do not seem so well known as in America. To @ foreigner the wholesale plundering of villas, which goes on every year, is the most astounding branch of the trade. Paris to the north and west is encircled with thousands of comfortable houses seat- ed Well back in their snug gardens, and fur- nishing the quiet delighis of the country within an hour's reach of the noisy city. The Parisian leaves his villa only when the chill frosts of autumn drive him cityward, and his furniture and bric-a-brac remain behind him. He locks the doors carefully; perhaps nails patent burglar-proof shutters against the windows; then he hires some gardener of the neighborhood to make a daily round and keep an eye on the house It seldom happens that a family is left, even in the gate lodge. Knows Where He Goes. It is the burglar’s business to know in a general way all the villas of the rich Par- isians within his range of operations. One of a band—for this wholesale kind of bur- glary requires a band of men—gets himself up as a common laborer, and easily finds sion to talk with some of the servan ‘ore the house ts left empty. He thus learns fairly well what treasures are likely to be found, and sometimes he is abl set accel for himself by helping in som: job, and ‘thus becomes familiar with the situation of the different rooms. Whi the house is finally closed for the seaso. the first thing is to learn how faithful a watch is kept by the guardian. After a few days the latter, with the unsuspecting confidence of a country villager, usually begins neglecting his daily round. Some- times the house is left merely locked and barred. A y simple device gives the in- formation which the burglars need. A dry leaf is carefully inserted into the keyh of the lock of the outer gate. A week passes and the leaf is still there; evidently the coast ist clear. If, however, faithful watch has been kept it is necessary to see that the guardian is occupied elsewhere during the time that the house is to be entered. This is no difti- cult matter. The burglar-workingman makes his acquaintance, finds out his hab- its—if he drinks, if he is fond of ladies’ so- ciety; and on the decisive evening the guar- dian is having a good time which wili ef- fectually keep him from his duty. If nec- essary, Some woman of the band will have been brought on from Paris to help in this part of the work. Dress as Movers. In the dusk of evening the burglars, dressed in the uniform of demenageurs—the men of companies who take charge of moy- ing household effects—drive up to the house with their van. They open the gate and boldly enter the grounds. A passing vil- lager or peasant will hardly dream of ques- tioning them, and should he seem too cu- rious they will soon secure his absence by asking him to lend a hand at some heavy work. Moreover, the knowledge alrea obtained of the rich man’s name and habits allows them to answer confidently enough jisarm ordinary suspicion. It must be ered, also, that much of the heavy moving of gocds of all kinds between city and country takes place during the night, on account of the great size of the vans in use. From the door of the house, which has been opened by skill or violen' pals and curtains and chairs, linen, gless ware and china, silver, pictures and curios —all are triumphantly embarked for Paris! In looting a city apartment matters have to be arranged somewhat differently. Here, too, a band of tra’ men is required, as well as a carefully laid plan, which it may take weeks to mature. I do not know that these burglars, by the wholesale, so to speak, have yet imitated the Paris beggars, who publish a journal of their own contain- ing a list of places where their trade is likely to prove productive. But it con- stantly happens that burglars, on their ar- rest, are found with the columns of the so- ciety papers which chronicle the going and coming of rich people. : For example, some well-known man of wealth has gone with his family to Nic> or some other autumn or winter resort. A pretended errand by a messenger in uni- ferm, with a portfolio under his arm, will lead the concierge to disclose the stat> in which the apartment has been left. Will he leave his message with the servant in charge of the rooms? Or p2rhaps shall the concierge send it by post? In the latter case the coast is clear, and only the con- cierge or janitor at the great door needs to be reckoned with. This is not impossi- blz, even by broad daylight. The janitors of these great houses, where a dozen fami- lies unacquainted with each other occupy whole suites of rooms, are not an intelli- gent class; and they know little or nothing of the different families whose common street door it is their business to keep. Be- fore consulting the concierge, the mess>n- ger has probably brushed past and up the stairs, so that he has learned the disposi- tion of the house. Robbers Invoke Law. A few weeks since, three men, showing the badge of the detective force, informed the concierge of a house in the fashionable Avenu3 Marceau that the Dreyfus-Zola presecutions had involved a certain mar- qvis, then absent from the city. It was necessary for the government to make a seafch, and, possibly, to carry off papers and the like. Respect for the law and its agents is deeply rooted among the lower clesses, and the concierge immediately ac- quiesced. While one of the pret>nded offi- cers kept watch over her at the porter’s lodge, the others mounted to the rooms, gathered up jewsls and silverware, cut ccstly pictures from their frames, and transported all safely to parts unknown. It was only after some reflection and talk with her friends that the good janitor’s su: picions wer? at last aroused. Then the terant of the apartment was summoned home, to find himself well robbed. It was suspected that a noted burglar, much want- ed by the police, had engineered the strok:. It was desirable to lay hands on him at his own place, as some clue might then he found as to the whereabouts of the pluu- der. For many days th3 detectives went about showing his photograph, which was in the rogues’ gallery, to the concierges of houses where it was thought he might be ving. At last it entered the mind of some one to go through the rather fin? streets near the burglarized apartment of the marquis. In a large house the janitor at once recognized the portrait as that of a man who for some time back had rented the most plebeian of her rooms, nxt to the roof. These rooms were broken into, and not only a good part of the marquis’ prop- erty, including the best of his pictures, was found, but the remains also of other robberies which the police had never b2en able to trace. A Sister of Rachel. Of the latter the most interesting was that of the jewels belonging to Madame Dina Felix. This aged woman is the sister of the famous actress Rachel. She has liv- ed for years in an apartment looking out on the full Boulevard near the Madeleine? Here very early one morning she was awakened by the presence of men in her room. In mortal terror she did not dare to car- move until they had finished their work and got off with all of her precious relics, The police found nothing until this last tscovery placed in their hands a part of what had been taken. When a servant has been left in charge of an apartment, the same general method is followed as in the case of country y His habits are studied; his acquaintan made at the cafe which he frequents; flattered; his ostentation of his mast wealth and glory gives valuable inforn tion. Sometimes when he ts flushed with drink and with success at cards, he will even pass around his bunch of keys to show the confidence reposed in him. A simple matchbox filled with wax is suffi- cient to retain the impression of an im- portant key, and in any case the burglar soon has all he wants from “tho faithful servant.” On the appointed night the lat- ter's presence is secured elsewhere than at his post of duty; and in the morning the usual story is developed. The rervant has never been guilty of the slightest ach of confidence, and as this exacts absolute silence on his part, the police are left wit out information Burglary in small shops demands at least @ couple of daring confederates, who have watched things for some time. They must not only get safely in, which is not difficult, in spite of the propriet ing above, but they must be able to a . through the streets, with bulky by their pilla, the thief must take his chance of meeting with an incon- 5 best venient pol pil him. man. Sometimes Policemen in F week pistol shot a end of street near them, had the good sens: vide, one staying where he was other running toward the shot. 7 was just In time to c: nothing on him but the one who stay caught a man with a he ing out of an a + him. In the breaking into rooms by night Paris would yteld the palm to own American cities. It Is dift the lofty weil-built Parisian bh through the t portal bes rlerge’s lodge, and this, even in th arters, 1s closed up tight by m Then, if the rn > to be pillaged a pied, the burg! r may be interru moment and forced to take io jump from a window. As ¢ this breaking into rooms is often day than by night. The burglar walks past the janitor with a business-like package under his arm. | dently he knows where he is going. a on an errand, or the concierg:. a. happens, may have left her lodz her duty. Orce in the uppor crook breaks into any room ie finds cupted. This 4s not difficult where the lower middle-cl people jive together in ex- all apartmenis, and it is th vings of such people that most often fall a prey mbitious to the thieves e industrious but Great own in all this and the burglar trequent- ly works alone. It 1s to this branch of the ade that the name cambrioleurs is erly applied, though it ts often extended to all burglars; camirioi-, m_ the aris slang, is the little char clerk, waiter or wor the day and returns oniy night. or lodgt who is to we z of absent J pin it Robbers Are Actors, In the use of tools is net striking! H the Parisian burglar different from his foreign ability to do cle rk thought at by but, on the other hand amount of superb acting would not dreath of. When hard } for escape, he ts muc ker at showir ief. Perb let alon ret brethren. would fot Ameri an ver w he which fight than any foreign t is this kit His m picklock dw why he is so often ntains litle but the which the the a few fals Ss and wax for taking ke and quick wit uy aa burgiar possesses, and he usuully poss courage and the temper to 4 when brought to bay. 4 furth: ity is that, almost (o a man, of Paris belong to the lowest cla A Mate box fill sions. ¢ inc Iwas of the people. The trade desceads from father son; it is a fair livin but it is ant. Si LRLING HEIL ep Patience. From the Philadelphia Times. There is nothing that so sorely tries cne's temper as enforced idleness. The active body stricken with sudden illness does r rebel so long as physical pain and wea ness reign suprem but in that period of convalescense where the tedium of dai health-gaining grows monotonous patier become a virtue even ¢ than when it is seated on a monument <milir at grief which we believe is popularly suppo: > be the acme of good behavior on its Not cnly is patience needed in the ont stricken, but in the caretakers, whose task it is to learn the peevish whimsicalities of the invalid. The All-wise Being who does everytiiug for the best undoubtedly defines a purj in this period of chastening, but hum divination fells sirt and there is much umbling at what seems to by discipline. The writer has for days str sled with pe onal inclination and physics suffering. To be with the active, busy, help- ful throng has been her desire: to struge with pain and her lot, and th lesson of patien been seared inte brain and body with the red-hot bras suffering. To all other invalids she ser greeting. She also wishes to whisper j word or two that, if followed, may make it rho are in at is vest, and tendance upon th though we Waat i may not see the present perti- nent reason for being set aside from our usual haunts, let us con the lesson of pa- tience, so that wi en the period of conva- an end and We are once again our customary in the may bring to our work a sweeter, gentler spirit, a warmer desire for the welfare of others, and a richer appre- ciation of the health and strength that was perhaps taken from us just that mix quell the turbulent tyrannt pirtt that grew in arrogance with our own power. The motto, “If at first you don't succeed, try, try again,” does not apply to the Span- ish effort to whip Uncle Sam. o i belief in our A few years ago a New York newspaper conducted an open discussion m the topic: “Is Marriage a Failure? The answer is easy and upon the surface. Where there is mutual love and respect, if there is also health, marriage is a success. When health is left out, even the most ardent love does not count, and marriage is invariably @ failure. Modern science has cried the warning so often that ail should realize the dangers of wedlock to ple in ill-health. In a case of this kind death lurks on every side —in the kiss of betrothal and the caress of the honeymoon. The man who is sufferi from ill-health is a physical bankrupt, an has no right to condemn a woman to be his nurse for life and the mother of babes that inherit his physical weakness. Dr. Pierce's Golden Medical Discovery acts directly on the digestive organism. It makes it strong and its action perfect. When a man’s di- gestion is all right his blood will be pure; when his blood is pure his nervous system ‘will be strong and his health vigorous. A woman who suffers from end disease of the delicate organism of her vex cites to euler from general ~ sy Sree aneeeey, betplons to lid an a disappointm . ildren eae peer, = a home an im possi health is restored. Dr. Pierce's Fa cures all of the tinct]: cures them