The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 8, 1901, Page 4

Ftall Caine’s Lalest and Best Work, “Ohe Cternal City.” OR about three years Hall Caine has been hard at work in Rome col- lecting material and writing the of all his books, “The just published by D. Ap- pleton & Co. of New York. His time has not been wasted for “The Eternal Cit Wit compare favorably with the greatest works in fiction, of many sehsons. Mr. Caine has written, with a purpose and what he has to say regard- ing the problem of his novel is printed on this page, but the book will appeal to the great mass of readers for its story alone. In fact his writing is so powerfully hu- man in its Wterest that probably not one in a thousand will think of “problems or “purposes’” When devouring the pages of “The Fternal City."” Like other books from Mr. Caine’s pen this is decidedly somber in color, almost morbid, in fact, and as far as the charac- ters are concerned things could not turn out much worse. The reader has the rather poor congolation of knowing that right for the multitude has come out of the wrongs of individuals, but it is hard to cheer for the good of mankind at large with 2 Jump in your throat and tears in your e over the cruel fates of those You have learned to know and love—even if they are only passing figures in fiction. This new novel is over 30,000 words in length. From that fact alone it is evi- dent that the author has allowed himself ro limit in making his descriptions full or in carrying out the intricacies of his plots and counterplots. The work is dar- ing and undoubtedly will awaken con- siderable comment. Tt deals with the Rome of to-day OE_to-morrow. It is emsy to imagine characters in the book taken from those in real life, for Mr. Caine does not hesitate to introduce most prominently a Pope of Rome, a Kjng and for his villain a most remark- able Prime Minister, and in lesser light rear the British and American Minis- ters. In a brief prologue is shown a glimpse of life twenty years hefore the actual be- ginning of the events that form the main story. = Dr. Roselli, an exile from Italy living under an assumed name, saves - the life of a poor Aittle Italian sufferer e padrone system in London—a little p who only knows that his name is Leone, that he is from Italy and he is a begzgar. David lives with the Rosellis and be- comes as a brother to Rema, the daughter, so a firm believet in the doctor's or eaving his country from the po- | oppression that threatens fit. 2ty vears later we find that the doc- tor firally went to Italy on the false rep- resentations of his kinsman. He even left his motherless little daughter in London of th that he might further the good of the ase for mankind. This kinsman, the n Bonelli, easily compasses the fall of the good doctor and manages imprisonment—all because he wishes the estates and is politically am- bitious Before the doctor dies he sends a phono- graph cylinder to David. and this proves of the utmost importance as the plot de- velops 7 Meantime Roma Roselli has been taken by the Baron and brought up as his war She is in Rome and is known by her tr name of Roma Volonna. David Leone is in Rome, and now, under his moth- name of Rossi, is a member of the mber of Deputies and a leader of the extreme Left. He is regarded by the Gov- ernment as an anarchist of the most dan- gerous sort. but in reality is a man of peace and a bellever in a government of the people ruled by the people. At the time of the Pope’s Jubilee, when Rossi addresses the people, neither Roma nor David has any idea of the identity of the other. Already Roma’'s name has been scandalously linked with that of the Baron, and so in his speech directed at the Government and its real head, the Prime Minister, Rossi uses that point to s ‘And who in Rome cannot point to the Ministers who allow their mistresses to meddle in public affairs and enrich them- selves by the ruin of all around?” Baron Bonelli has the man promptly ar- rested on pretense of exciting a riot, but Roma asks that he be left to her that she may take her own revenge. She wishes to humiliate him by becoming his friend and then betraying him s wormed all of him and can catch him spiracy of importance. says to the Baron: “You say there is a mystery about Da- vid Rossi. and you want to know who he i=. who his father was and where he spent the years he was away from Rome." “T would certainly give a good deal to know it “You want to know what vile refugee in London filled him with his fancles, piracies he s hatching, what secret societies he belongs to, and. above all, what his plans and schemes are, and whether he is in league with the Vati- after she has secrets out of in some con- To this end she She spoke so rapidly that the words sputtered out of her quivering lips. “Well?” “Well, T will find it all out for you.” “My dear Romal” “Leave him to me, and within a month shall know '—she laughed, a little asham “‘the inmost secrets of his soul.” She was walking to and fro again to prevent the Baron from looking into her face, which was now red over its white, like a rese moon in a stormy sky. The Barcn thought. “She is going to humble the man by her charms—to draw him on and then fling him away, and thus pay him back for what he has done to-day. o much the better for me if 1 may stand by and do nothing. A inister should be unmoved hy attacks. He shouid appear to regard them with contempt.” He looked at her, and the brilliancy of kher eyes set his heart on fire. The terrible attraction of her face at that moment stirred in him the only love he had for her. At the same time it awak- ened the first spasm of jealousy, “I understand you, Roma,” he said. “y are splendid! You are irresistible! But remember—the man is one of the in- corruptible.” se laughed. “No woman who has yet crossed his path seems to have touched him, and it is the pride of all such men that no woman ever can.” “I've seen him,” she said. “Take care! As you say, he is young and handsome.” She tossed her head and laughed again. The Baron thought: “Certainly = he has wounded her in a way no woman can forgive.” * ¢ “You wish me to liberate David Ross! and leave you to deal with him?” “I do! O©Oh, for the day when T can turn the laugh against him as he turned the laugh against me! At the top of his hopes, at the height of his ambitions at the moment when he says to himself, ‘It is done'—he shall fall.” The Baron touched the bell. “Very he sald. “One can sometimes catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with a hogshead of vineger.” We shall see. Roma zt once proceeds to carry out her vioy. She is a sculptress and decides to ash Rossi to sit for her as a model for cne of the figures on a fountain that s..s i is doing for the municipality. This is to be the first strand n the net with whica she intends to drown kim. In the meantime Rossi something about Donna Roma and his fears are confirmed when he hears the proncgraphic cylinder which has reached him with the dying words of the heloved grardian of his youth. So his course is casily taken when Roma calls. “I am doing a very vnusual thing in coming to see you,’ she said, “but ¥o1 have forced me to it, and I am aquite helpless. “I heard your speech in the plazza this has learned ricining. Tt would be useless to disguise . the fact that some of its references were meant for me. “1f I were a man, I suppose I should chellienge you. Belng-a woman, I can only come to you and tell yon that you ave wrong." “Wrong' “Cruelly, terribly, shamefully wrong.” “You mean to tell me"'— He was stammering in a husky volce, but she said quite calmly: “I mean to tell you that fn substance ar] in fact what you implied was false.” “If—if"—his volee was thick and indis- tiact—"if vou tell me that I have don2 ¥ou an Injury’’— “You have—a terrible injury. Ske could hear s breathing but she dared. mot look up, lest he should sco sometning In her face. “Perhaps. you think it strange’ she said, “that I should ask you to accept my assurance only. But though you have done me a great wrong I believe you will ac cept It. Even your enemies speak of you &= & just mar. You are known everywhe: as a defeuder of women. Wherever a wo- man is wrenged by eruel and selfish men ther2 your rame rirgs out as her friend and champion. Fha!l it be said that in Your own person you have made an in- noecent woman cuffer?” . If...if you give me your solemn word of honor that what 1 said—what I ‘mplied -was false, that rumor and re- 3 have siandered you, that it is all a eruel and taseless calumn She raiged her head, looked him full in ile face, 2nd without a quiver in her veice: “I do give 1. she said. hen T do believe you,” he answered “With all my leart and soul I believe Tou.” He had been 1 ‘niing. “It :s she! The sweetness of cbildheod and of girlish in- nocence a little faced, a little depraved a little changed. Tut it is she!” “This man is a ch he thought. “He will believe znything I tell him.” And then she drcpped her eyes again, and turning with her itn.mb an opal ring on her finger, she began to use the blandish- ments which had never failed with other v that T am altogether with- e szid. “I may have lved a thoughtless li‘e amid scenes of poverty and sorrcw. If sc, rerhaps it has been vartly the fault cf the men about me. When is a woman anything but what the men around her have made her?” She dropped her ve almost to a whis- per, and added are the fiist marn who has nct praised and flattered me.” “I was not th'nk ng of you,” he sail. “I was thinking cf znother, and perhaps of the poor wctkng women who, in a world of iuxury, kave to struggic and starve She locked vy, end a half smile e the ler tace. Tt was likc the smile of fowler, when the bird on the tree an- swers to the Gecoy in the grass. “I honor you for that,” she said. *“And perhaps if I had earlier met a man like you my life might have been different. T used to hope for such things long ago— that a man of high aims and noble pur- poses would come to meet me at the gate of life. Perhaps you have felt like that— that some woman, strong and true, would stand beside’ you for good or for ill, in your hour of danger and your hour of Joy.” Her volce was hardly knew w! dream! We all have our dreams, he said. “A dream indeed! Men came—he was not among them. They pampered every wish, not quite steady—she indulged every folly, loaded me with luxuries, but my dream was dis- pelled. I respected few of them and rev- erenced none. They were my pastime, my vlaythings. And they have revenged themselves by saying in secret—what you sald in publi¢ this morning.” He was looking at her constantly with his great wistful eves, the eyes of a child, and through all the joy of her success she was consclous of a spasm of pain at the expression of his sad face and the sound of his tremulous voice. “We men are much to blame,”” he sald. “In the battle of man with man we deal out blows and think we are fighting fair, but we forget that behind our foe there is often a woman—a wife, a mother, a sis. ter, a friend—and, God forgive us, we have struck her, too.” The half smile that had gleamed on Roma’'s throat was wiped ‘out of it by these words, and an emotion she did not understand began to surge in he- throat. “You speak of poor women who strug- gle and s ve,” she said. ““Would it sur- prise you to hear that I know what it is to do that? Yes, and to be friendless and alone—qulte. quite alone in a cruel and wicked city?” P She had lost herseif for a moment, and the dry glitter in her eyes had given way to a moistness and a solemn expression. But at the next instant she had regained her self-control, and went on speaking to avoid a painful silence. “I have never spoken of 'this to another men,” she said. “I don't know why should mention it to you—to you of all men." He found no treachery in her fasclna- tions. He omly saw his little Roma, the child who lived in her still, her innocent sister who lay sleeping within. Bhe had risen to her feet, and he stepped up to her, and looking straight into her eyes, he said: ““Have you ever seen me before?” -« “Never,” she answered. “git down,” he sald. *‘I have something to say to yo She sat down, and a peculiar expres- sion, almost a crafty one, came into her face. “You have told me a little of your life,” he saild: “let me tell you something of mine.” She smiled again, and it was with diffi- culty that she concealed the glow of triumph in her cheeks. TWese big chil- dren called men were almost to be pitied. Bhe had expected a fight, but the man had thrown up the sponge from the out- set, and mow he was going to give him- self into -her hands. Only for that pa- thetic look in his eves and that searching tone In his vuice she could have found it in her heart to laugh. “You are the daughter of an ancient family,” he said, ‘‘oldér than the house it lived in and prouder than a line of kings. And whatever sorrows you may have seen, you knew what itwyas to have a mother who nursed you anfl a father who loved you and a home that was your own. Can you realize what it is to have known neither father nor mother, to be homeless, nameless and alone?” She looked up—a deep furrow had cross- cd his brow which she had not seen there before. “Yes. My earliest memory s of being put out to nurse at a farmstead in the Campagna. It was the time of revolu- tion; the treasury of the Pope was not yet replaced by the treasury of the King, the nuns at Santo Spirito had o money with which to pay their pensions and I ‘was likp a-child forsaken by its own, & fledogll‘xng in a forelgn nest.” “On 2 . “Those were the days when scoundrels established abroad traded in ‘the white slavery of poor Italian boys. They scour- ed_the country, gathered them up, put them in raflway trucks lke cattle and . dispatched -them to foreign countries.. My foster parents parted with me for money, and I was sent to London.” Roma’s bosom was heaving and tears were gathering in her eyes. “My next memory is of living in a large, _ half-empty- house in Soho—fifty foreign boys crowded together. Rema's eves were filling frankly, and she was allowing the tears to flow. “Thank God, T have another memory,” ke continued. “It is of a good man, a galnt among men, an Italian refugee, giv- ing his life to the poor. especlally to the peor of his own people. “Wkat was his name?"”’ “They called him Joseph Roselll.” Roma half rose from her seat, then _sank back, and the lace handkerchief dropped from her hand. “But T heard afterward—long afterward —thdt he was a Roman ncble; one of the fearless few who had taken up poverty +and exile in an unknown name for the sake ‘of liberty and justice.” “Well? ““He was enticed from England to Italy; ®n English Minister violated his corre- spondence with a friend and communi- scated its contents to the Itallan Govern- ment: he was betrayed into the hands of the police and deported without trial."” . Roma was clutching at the bodice of her dress as if to keep down a ery. “Was he never heard of again?” “Once—only once—by the friend I speak about.” » “Who was the friend?” she asked. “One of his poor waifs—a boy who owed everything to him and loved and revered him as a father—loves and reveres him still, and tries to follow in the path he trod.” “What—what was his name?” “David Leone."” : She looked at him for a moment with- .out being able to speak. Then she said: “What became of him?” “He went to America.” *“Did he ever return?” bt/ Love of home in him, as in all homeless ones, was a_consuming passion, and he came back to Italy.” “Where—where is he now?” David Rossi stepped up to her and said: “In this room.” She rose— “Then you are David Leone?” “David Leone is dead!"” “I understand. David Leone but David Rossi is alive.” He did not speak, but his head was held up and his face was shining. e “Are you not afraid to tell me this?” is dead, “You insulted and humiliated me in public this morning, yet you think I will keep vour secret?” “T know you will.” “May T—may I shake hands with you?” she said. There was a moment of hesitation and then thefr hands seemed to leap at each other and clasp with a clasp of fire. At the next instant he had lifted her hand to his lips and was Kkissing it again and again. A sensation of triumphant joy flashed through her, and instantly died away. She wished to cry out, to confess, to say something, she knew not what. But Da- vid Leone is dead rang in her ears, and at the same moment she remembered what the impulse had been which brought her to that house. Then her eyes hegan to swim and her heart to fail, and she wanted to fly away without uttering another word. She could not speak, he could not speak; they stood together on a precipice where only by silence could they hold their heads. “Let me go home,” she said in a break- ing. voice, and with downcast head and trembling limbs she stepped to the door. After that David redeems his promise of acting as a model and Roma sees him quite frequently in her studio. To both of them the past becomes clearer and clearer, and one day at a little country inn circumstances arise that bring the matter to a turning point, and they admit that each has recognized the other. Their eyes met, their hands clasped, their pent-up secret was out, and in the dim-lit catacombs of love two souls stood face to face. ““How long have you known it?” she whispered. “Since the night you came to the Plazza Navona. And you?” “Since the moment I heard your volce.” And then she shuddered and laughed. When they left the house of silence a blessed hush had fallen on them, a great wonder which they had never known be- fore, the wonder of the everlasting mira- cle of human hearts. David soon finds that he is falling seri- ously in love with the adorable Roma. He has sworn to devote his life to the cause of humanity and has always said that if he ever found himself in such a position he should run from the object of his affection before it was too late. For this reason he ceases his visits. Roma soon finds out the cause. She begins to love the man, for she realizes his great- ness when he is willing to atone for his slurring of her character by being seen with her at the theater and when he ac- cepts the innuendos of her society friends without retort. Their studio talks, too, have brought them very close together, and she decides that she cannot give him up. . Already she regrets information she has unwittingly given the Baron, which he Is putting to good use, so she tries to keep her own counsel on subsequent interviews with Rossi. As he does not come she de- cides to go to him. He is alone in his room when Roma ar- rives. “I have come for a minute only,” she sald. '‘You received my letter?” Rossi bent his head. “David, I want the fulfillment of your promi “What promise?” ““The promise to come to me when I stand in need of you. I need you now. My fountain is practically finished, and to-morrow afternoon I am to have a re- ception to exhibit it. Everybody will be there, and 1 want you to be present also." “Is that necessary?” he asked. “For my’ purposes, yes. Don't ask me wh Don't question me at all. Only trust me and come.” “Very well, I will be there.” = all. I might have written, but T was afraid you might object, and I wished to make quite certain. Adieu!" ‘“Roma,” he said, in a voice that sound- ed choked. She stopped, but did not speak, and ‘he felt himself growing hot all over. “I'm relieved—so much relieved—to hear that you agree with what I said in my letter : “The last—in which you wish me to for- get you?” ““It is better so—far better. I am one of those who think that if either party to a marriage”—he was talking in a constrain. ed way—‘‘entertains beforehand any ra- tional doubt about’it, he is wiser to with- draw, even at the church door, rather than set out on a lifelong voyage under doubtful auspices.” =~ “Ah, well,” she said, taking a long breath and turning a little way. “But don’t think I shall not suffer in parting from you, Roma. Thy will be done. There are moments in life when it isn’t easy to say that. At least I can pray that you may be happy—and perhaps in eternity’ “Didn’t we Dromise not to speak of this?” she said impatiently. Then theiwr PURPOSE CF ““TRE ETERNAL QITY” By Hall Caine. : HRISTIAN democracy has, I think, a great part to play against Christian absolutism in the century upon which we have just en- tered. His Holiness the Pope bas done wisely in grappling with that inevitable problem in the Encyclical that has just been issued. The church has to make terms with this Christian democratic movement, which is perhaps the greatest movement in the world at present. If the church cannot go on with the people, depend upon it the people will go on without the church. In order to justify and explain the title of my story, I would say that it seems to me almost certain that in that great future which is to witness the breakdown of so many barriers dividing man from man and man from God, and in the new methods of settling internal and international disputes, which will take the place of the brutal and bar- barous conflicts of war, as well as the cruel and fratricidal struggles of trade, the old Mother City of the Pagan and the Christian worlds will have her rightful rank. Her geographical position, her - religious and historical interest, her artistic charm, and, above all, the mystery of eternal life which attaches to her, ceem to me to point to Rome as the seat of the great court of appeal in the congress of humanity which (as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow) the future will see established. If all this seems to be too large a problem to discuss in a novel, let me at once make confession of the limitation of the vehicle in my hands, and say that, although this great question occupied my mind, I am very conscious that all that the public expects of me as a story-teller is that above everything else I should tel! a simple human story. That I have tried my best to do, and if in the sequel it should ap- pear that I have in any measure retained the good will of the public of American readers, so dear to me, I shall be abundantly satisfled and happy. <+ eyes met for a moment and he knew that he was false to himself and that his talk of renunciation was a mockery. “Roma,” he said again, “if you want me in the future you must write.” Her face ciouded over. - “For your own sake, you know'’— “Oh, that! That's nothing at all—noth- ing now.” “But people are insulting me about you and”"— “Well, and you?" The color rushed to his cheeks and he smote the back of a chair with his clench- ed fist. “I tell them" — “I understand,” she said, and her eyes began to shine again, But she only turned away, saying: “I'm sorry you are angry that I came.” “Angry!" he crled, and at the sound of his voice as he said the word their love for each other went thrilling through and through them. The rain had begun to fall and it was beating with smart strokes on the window panes. “You can't go now,” he said, “and since you are never td come here again there is something you ought to hear.” He went to the bureau drawer by the wall and took out a small round packet. “Do you remember your father’s voice?” he asked. “That is all I do remember about my father. Why?” 3 “It is here in this cylinder.” She rose quickly and then slowly sat down agajn. “Tell me,” she said. “When your father was deported to the island of Elba he was a prisoner at large, without personal restraint, but under po- lice supervision.” “Did he ever hear of me?” ‘ “Yes, and of myself as well. A prisoner brought him news of one David Rossi, and under that name and the opinions attached to it he recognized David Leone, the boy he had brought up and educated. He wished to send me a message.” “Was it about”— “Yes. The letters of prisoners are read and copled, and to smuggle out by hand a written document is difficult or impos- sible. But at length a way was discov- ered. Some one sent a phonograph and a box of cylinders to one of the prisoners, and the little colony of exiled ones used to meet at your father's home to hear the music. Among the cylinders were cer- tain blank ones. Your father spoke onto one of them and when the time came for the owner of the phonograph to leave El- ba, he brought the cylinder back with him. This is the cylinder your father spoke onto.” “And this contains my father's voice,” she sald. ““His last message.” “}e is dead—two years dead—and yet'— “Can you bear to hear it?”’ “Go on,” she said, hardly audibly. He took back the cylinder, put it on the phonograph, wound up the instru- ‘ment and touched the lever. . Then through the sound of the rain and of the phonograph there came a clear, full voice: “David Leope—your old friend Doctor Roselli sends you his dying message"’— The hand on Rossi’s arm clutched it convulsively, and, in a choking whisper, Roma said: “Wait! Give me cne moment.” She was looking around the darkening room as if almost expecting a ghostly presence. She bowed her head. Her breath came auick and fast. o “I am better now. Go on,” she said. The whirring noise began again and after a moment the clear voice came as before: son, the promise I made when we parted in London I fulfilled faithfully, but the letter I wrote to you never came to your hands. It was meant to tell you who 1 was, and why I changed my name. That is too long a story now, and I must be brief. I am Prospero Volonna. My father was the last prince of that name. Except the authorities and their spies nobody in Italy knows me as Roselli and nobody in England as Volonna—nobody but one, my poor dear child, my daughter Roma.” The hand tightened on Rossi’s arm and his head began to swim. “Little by little, in this grave of a liv- ing man, 1 have heard what has happened since I was banished from the world. The treacherous letter which called’ me back to Italy and.decoyed me into the hands of the police was the work of the man who now holds my estates as the payment for his treachery.” ‘“The Baron?" Rossi had stopped the phonograph. “Can you bear it?” he said. The pale young face flushed with reso- lution. Go on,” she said. When the voice from the phonograph began again it was more tremulous and husky than before. ““After he had betrayed the father, what tmpulse of fear or humanity prompted him to take charge of the child God alone, who reads all hearts, can say. He went to England to look for her, found her in the streets to which she had been aban- doned by the faithlessness of the guard- fans to whom I left her, and shut their mouths by buying them to the perjury of burying . the unknown body of an un- fortunate being in the name of my be- loved child.” A The hand on Rossi’'s arm trembled feeb- 1y and slipped down to his own hand. It was cold as ice. The veice from the pho- nograph was growing faint. " “She is now in Rome, living in the name that was mine in Italy, amid an atmos- phere of danger and perhaps of shame. My son, save her from it. The man who betrayed the father may betray the daughter also. Take her from him. Res- cue her. Tt is my dying prayer.” The “voice ceased, the whirring of the instrument came to an end, and an invisi- ble spirit seemed to fade into the air. The pattering of tie rain had stopped, and there was the crackle of cab wheels on the pavement below. Roma had dropped Rossi’s hand and was leaning forward on her knees, with both hands over her face. After a moment she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and began to put on her hat. “How long is it since you received this message?”’ she said. g “On the night you came here first.” *And when I asked you to come to my house on that—that useless errand you were thinking of—of my father’s request as well “Yes. “You have known all this about the Baron for a month, yet you have sald Dothing. Why have you sald nothing?” “You wouldn’t have believed me at first, whatever I had said against him.” But afterward?” i Afterward 1 had another reason.” “Did it concern me?” “¥Yes.’} “Arné now?"” “Now that I have to part from you I am compelled to tell you what it is.” “But if you had known that all this time he has been trying to use somebody against you—"" “That would have made no difference. She lifted-her head and a look of fire. almost,_of flerceness, came into her face, but she only sald, with a little hysterical cry. as it her tkroat were swelling: “Come to me to-morrow, David! Be sure you come! If you dnn't\ome 1 shall never, never forgive you. But you will come! You will! You will!™ And then. as if afrald of breaking out into eobs, she tarned quickly and hurried away. 2 “She can never fall into. that mans hands now.” he thought. And then he lit Bis lamp and cat down to his work, but the light was gone and the night had fallen on him. In Roma’s studio the next day she sur- prises all her Line friends, brings ridicule on the head of the Baron and partially atones ' for her flrst efforts to betray Rossi. They afe all assembled to look at the statuary Roma has been working upon for the munieipal fountain. “Superb!” they exclaimed, one after an- other. “Superb! Superb! “‘Blit surely this is ‘Hamlet' without the Prince,” said the Barom. “You set out to make a fountain representing Christ and his twelve apostles. and the only figure you_leave unfinished is Christ himself!” He pointed to the central figure above the dish, which was merely shaped out and indicated. “Not only one, your Excellency,” sald Don Camillo. “Here is another unfinished figure—intended for Judas. apparently.” “I left them to the last on purpos said Roma. “They were so important and so difficuit. But I have studies for both of them in the boudeir, and you shall give me your advice and opinfon. “It was g0 difficult to do justice to the Christ that T am almest sorry T made the attempt. But it came easler when I be- gan to think of some one who was being reviled and humiliated and degraded be- cause he was poor and wasn't ashamed of it.and who was always standing up for the weak and the down-trodden, and never re- turning anyhody ful and false and wicked, because wasn't thinking of himself at all. So I got the best model I could in real life and this is the result.” With that she pulled off the muslin veil and revealed the sculptured head of David Rossf, in a snow-white plaster cast. The features axpressed pure nobility, and every touch was a touch of sympathy and love. A moment of chilling silence was fol- lowed by an underbreath of gossip. “Who is it?"" “Christ, of course.” “Oh, certain- ly: but it reminds me of - Vhe ean it be?" *“The Pope?” . 't you see who it 187" “Is it, real- How shameful™ “How blasphem- ous Roma stood looking on with a face lighted up by two flaming eyes. “T'm afraid you don’t think I've done justice to my model.” she sald. “That's quite true. But perhaps my Judas will please vou better,” and she stepped up to the bust that was covered by the wet cloth. “I found this a difficult subject also, and it was not until yesterday evening that T felt able to begin on it.” Then, with a hand that trembled visi- bly. she took from the wall the portrait of her father. and offering it to the Min- ister, she sald: “Some one told me a story of duplicity and treachery—it was about this poor old gentleman, Baron—and then I knew what sort of a person it was who betrayed his friend and master for thirty pleces of silver, and listened to the hypocrisy, the flattery. and lying of the miserable group of parasites who crowded round him because he was a traitor, and be- cause he kept the purse.” With that she threw off the damp cloth, and revealed the ‘clay model of a head. The face was unmistakable, but it ex- pressed every baseness—cunning, arro- gance, cruelty and sensuality. The silence was freezing, and the com- pany began to turn away and to mutter among themselves, in order to cover their confusion. “It's the Baron™ “No?" “Yew” ‘“Disgraceful!” “Disgusting!” “Shocking' ‘A scarecrow!" Roma watched them for a moment, and then sald: ‘‘You don’t like my Judas! Nejther do I. You're right—it is dis- gusting.” And taking up in both hands a plece of thin wire, she cut the clay across, and the upper part of it feil face downward with a thud on the floor. ‘When they were all gone she shut the dcor with a bang, and then turning to David Rossi, who alone remained, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, and threw herself on her knees at his feet. “David!” she cried. “Don’t do that. Get up,” he answered. “Roma,” he began, but her tears and passion bore down everything. “House, furniture, presents, horses, everything will go soon, and I shall have loved nothing whatever! No matter! You said a woman loved ease and wealth and luxury, Is that all a wo- man loves? Is there nothing else in the world for any of us? Aren't you satisfied with me at last?” “Roma,” he answered, breathing hard, “don’t talk like that. I cannot bear it.”* But she did not listen. “You taunted me with being a woman,” she said through.a fresh burst of tears. “A woman was incapable of friendship and sacrifices. She was intended to be a man’s plaything. Do you think I want to be my husband's mistress? I want to be his wife, to share his fate, whatever it may be, for good or , for better or worse.” for God’s sake, Roma!” he crfed. But she broke In on him again. “You taunted me with the dangers you had to go through. as if a woman must needs be an impediment to her husband, and try to keep him back. Do you think 1 want my husband to do nothing? If he were content with that he would not be the man 1 had loved, and I should de- spise him and leave him. “Roma!"” “Then vou taunted me with the death that hangs over you. When you were gone 1 should hfi left to the mercy of the world. = But that can never happen. Never! Do you think a woman can out- ilve the man she loves as I love you? There! TI've sald it. You've shamed me into it.” He could not sl)ex\k now. His words were choking in his throat, and she went on in a torrent of tears: “The death that threatens you comes from no fault of yours, but only from vour fidelity to my father. Therefore I ave a right to share it, and I will not live when you are dead.” “If I give way now.” he thought, “all is over. And clenching his hands behind his back to keep himself from throwing his arme around her he began in a low volce: “Roma, you have broken your promise to me. *J don’t care;” she interrupted. “T would break ten thousand promises. I deceived you. I confess it. I pretended to be rec. onciled to your will. and I was not reco ciled. T wanted you to see me strip my- gelf of all I had, that you might have no answer and excuse. ¢ll, you have seen me do it. and now—what are you going to do now?” - ~ carriages, “Roma.” he began again, trembling all over, ‘‘there have been two men in me .all this time, and one of them has been trying to protect you from the w. rom yourself, while the mner_cfii'dm'n';? Has been wam!:\s you to despise all his objections and trample them under your feet. If I could only believe that you Know all_you are doing, all the risk you are running and the fate you are willing to share—but no, it is impossible.” “David,” she cried, “you love me! 1¢ you didn’t love me I 'should know it now Zat this moment. But I am braver than you are.” {Let me go. I cannot answer for my- self.” “I am braver than you are, for T have not only stripped myself of all my pos. Fessions and of all my friends—I hawe even compromised myself again and again, and been daring and audaclous and rude to everybody for your sake. I a_woman, while you, a Man, you are afrald, ves, afraid: you are a coward— that's it, a coward! " No, no, no! What am I saying? David Leone!” And with & ery of passton 4nd remorse she flung both arms about his neck. He had stood. during this fierce sirug- gle of love and pain, holding himself in until his throbbing nerves could bear the strain no_longer. “Come to me, then—come to me," he cried and at the moment when she threw herself upon him he stretched out his arms to receive her me e sald. And you?” . yes!” He clasped her in his arms with re. doubled ardor and pressed her to his breast and kissed her. The love so lon pent up was bursting out ke a liberate: cataract that sweeps the smow and the fee before it. “You will never think the worse of me?” she faltered. k. “The worse of you! For loving me’ “PFor telling you so and forcing myself into vour Hf “My darling, no!” w “But tell me,” he said, “‘are you sure— quite sure? Do you know what is befors you?* “I only know I love you.” From this time on Bonelli begins take a more active part. He realizes his wrong 'Sstep in turning over the betrayal of Rossi to Roma, but he has alread learned enougn through her and by the additional assistance af a miserable police spy, Charles Minghelll, to know that Da- vid Rossi and David Leone are one and the same person. A sentence of death hangs over David Leone for the part he took in the con- spiracy with Dr. Roselli, and the Baron merely needs the last connecting link of identification of Resst with Leone to en- able him to have Rossi convicted and thereby rid himself of a dangerous polit- feal rival. Baron Bonelll now sees in Rossi also a rival in the affections of the young woman he loves, so his incentive to Zet Rosst out of the way has been dou- Pled. He tries to get Roma to help him but, of course, she now refuses absolutely to have anything to do with any scheme that will jeopardize the life of the man she loves. Roma warns David of the Baron’s plot- ting, and finally David sees that fc: the good of the cause he must go away and seek aid in foreign countries. Before he leaved Roma and he are married by a priest, althougn such a marriage is not recognized by the laws of the country but there is not sufficlent time for them to publish the banns of a civil marriag. From Rossi’s letters Roma is led t> e leve that he contemplates assassinating the King upon his return to Rome. Tha Baron gets an inkling that Roma k-ows this and goes deliberately to worg 1o have her betray her husband. Firs: tries tq get her to sive Rossi up by r-fer- ring to the past relations between them- selves and threatening her. “T.can tell him that. according to the law of nature and of reasom, you belong to me,” said the Baron. “Very well. It will be your word agains mine, will it not? “I can tell him," continued the Baron “that before God I am your husband. and 1f he comes between us it will be only as your lover and your paramour.” Although there is some truth in what the Baron has to say, still Roma has not been to biame, and so_she writes to Rossi and confesses all. The letters fail to reach him until after he has returned to Rome and many things have happened. Failing in this point, Bonelli claims to have evidence that Rossi expects to kill the King, and tells Roma that if she will tell all she gnows Rossi will be arrested on another charge, saved from the crimo of regicide and then allowed to go free with banishment. Otherwise he will ba taken and undoubtedly sentenced to death. She consents and signs a paper of iden- tification that makes Rossi's arrest pos- sible. David returns to Rome but is arrested on the frontier and comes in as a prison- er. At the rallway station in Rome his brother anarchists rescue him and he es- capes in the crowd. He goes straight to the room of Roma The Baron is already there and trying to persuade Roma to go with him. Their conversation has been long and ex- cited. Roma has a revolver in her hand and has made up her mind to kill Bonelli whan she hears the voice of Rossi Roma, who had forgotten all about the Baron, was rooted to the spot on which she stood. The Baron, who had under stood everything, was also transfixed. Then came a quick vibrating voice, “Roma!™ Roma made a faint ery and dropped the revolver out of her graspless hand. The Baron picked it up Instantly. He was the first to recover himseif. “Hush!” he saild in a whisper. “Let him come in. I will go Into this room. I mean no harm to any one: but if he should follow me—if you should reveal my presence—remember ~what I said befors about a challenge. And if I challenge him his shrift will have to be swift and sure.” The Baron stepped into the bedwoom. Then the_emotional voice came again, “Roma! Roma!" Roma staggered to the door and opened Ross! accuses Roma of betraying him. He has recetved none of her letters, and so, of course, is not informed on all that has happened. She has a difficult part to play, for she realizes the presence of the Baron in the next room and fears the consequences. She throws herself on his mercy and craves forgiveness. “It is not your fault if the love you brought home to me is dead. I hoped that before you came I might die too. I think my soul must be dead already, ard here I lay it at your feet. I dare not Lope for pardon, but if your great heart could par- don me—"" He felt his soul fill with love and for- giveness. bl"Bug_l know very well it is impossi- e- ‘“Nothing is impossible, Roma. We are all children in God’'s hand, erring littla children; and if the light of his love which lights up the book of life could shine on two more unfortunate enes—" She felt a sensation of swelling in her throbbing heart, and rose up with shin- ing eves. ‘“Roma, I confess that when I escaped from the police I came here to ayenge myself. They are following me, and I shall inevitably be taken. But if you tell me that it was only your love that led yom to denounce me—your love and noth- ing but your love—though I am bestrayed and fallen and may be banished or con- demned to death—still—" “T do say so! 1 swear—" tr;:nm woman lies,” sald a volce behind "l'he Baron stood in the bedroom door- ay. A terrible scene ensues, one of the strongest in the book, in which the Baron succeeds in convincing Rossi that Roma has purposely betrayed him and that she has really been the mistress of Bonelll. Rossi, in his mad fury, kills the Prime Minister and tyen seeks safety In the sa_g(;til,; of thg atican. e Pope admits David he u- knows nothing of what is going on in the outer world. He does not know that Roma has accepted the blame of the mur- der, has been tried and sentenced to lifs imprisonment. In the meantime a bloodless revolution has taken place and the King has abdi- cated bis throne. . David finally learns of the heroic sacrific® of Roma and a of her innocence, for the letters that s had sent to him abroad reach him at the Vatican and explain all. He rushes to the Chamber of Deputies to give himse!f up, but the members refuse to take anv action against him. and his name is men- tioned as the new President of the repub- He. He finds Roma on her deathbed, bu happy in his forgiveness, and they have a brief reunion of a weak before she dies (hn:(s'hl‘s ele(;(ted President, but he fee s work is over, v v and is heard of no rnore’.o B 5 Books Received. PITFALLS OF THE BALLROOM By Georzs F. Hall. Laird & Lee, Chitago. In.paper 5 cents. COALS OF FIRE-By Frances Hanford De- lanoy. The Abbey Press. New York. 1. SERIOUS COMPLICATIONS — By Frances Hanford Delandy. The Abbey Press, York. $1. GRAUSTARK—By G Ba Herbert 5. Stone & Co, Chicags T P:::[NN(FRE;‘AB!IH‘ — By Charles Feiton h . L. e ‘Publshi; o ol oF Clar shing Company, New PRI “WORTH READING." | FOR THE BLUE AND GOLD A Tale of Life at the University of Califernia. . ! By JOY LICHTENSTEIN $1.50 Net. **A rattling good story of undery d- uate life, ita work and its play. Thers are sccres of healthy. plueky. fun-loving, sturdy youns Amerieans who keep the interest at a gIOW from start to finish. It is a book that should be read by all college graduates, by all in college, nd by those iatending to enter college. —New Orleans Picayune. A. M. ROBERTSON, Publisher, 26 Pist Street, San Franeiseo, C: |