The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 28, 1904, Page 4

FRANCISCO SUNDAY CAL A KBS e e =) oy o She turned and faced him. He set down the candle and snuffed the wick with his fingers. His task was prov- ng more difficult than he had imagined Her self-command baflied him. “I came,” be said at length, “not as the bearer of Bl news—" “Ah, it is ill news, then; I see—I see; you would not be here If it were not. They condemn my husband, and you are the first to tell me of it. Thank you, I am very much obliged.” Her voice had grown a little hysteri- cal, and the irony of grief showed her to less advantage. Xavier welcomed his opportunity; he belleved that he could profit by it He unloosed his cloak and let it fall back from his shoulder. A flare of the embers upon the hearth cast out a ruddy flame and set his face in a frame of the brown-gold light. The whole figure was sinister and yet not unim- pressive. It might have been that of a great man surprised in:the hour of a crime. “Your husband, madame,” he said, in a tone so low that she could scarce- Iy hear him, “your husband has been found guilty by his judges and will be shot at dawn She tried to speak, but her voice failed. Though her face was turmed from him he could hear her sobbing Jike a child in the silence of the night. That is the judgment of the court,” he repeated unctuously; “it may or may not be final, madame.” ‘I understand you—God help me!” she said He was not displeased that she should meet him frankly. Like a shrewd merchant he knew that this was the hour of sale and barter. He had much tosoffer; she had something to give. She drew the chair to the fireside at his bidding, her chin resting upon her hands, her arms wpon her knees. The ebb and flow of the flickering blaze tonched her pale face with the tides of Nght. Her eyes were tearless, her nerves quivering. He understood what silance cost her. “I shall not trouble you with any particulars’” he resumed, falling to the monotonous step again like one upon a quest of words; “the court has neard the evidence and has found our friznd guilty. The rest is our work. I told you this morning when I sent for you to the citadel that you could save the Prince; you chose to ignore my warning. It would be a craven act to remember that you did so: I forget it, madame. 1 am content that we begin anew a task 'which the night must finish.” He paused, believing that her curi- osity would interrupt him, but she had nothing to say and he resumed: “Yes, a task which the night must finish or the day will find forever un- done. 1 fear it is that, madame—to say ‘ves’ or ‘no’ before the sunrise or to hold our tongues forever.” She quailed at the threat, but she dfd not lift her eves or protest that it was otherwise. Her hesitation satisfied him. He continued in a more decided tone: “When I sent you to the citadel this morning it was in my head that yoy would achieve nothing. The circum- stances were changing, the end uncer- tain. 1 foresaw that you would be guided by events. The verdict might be in your favor or the people vacillat- ing; there was still a hope of French action. The day has altered all that; we are confronted with fresh facts and must consider them. At least you will admit that it is different?"” “I admit nothing,” she said; ‘“my husband has answered you once for all.” “Then your husbard is an obstinate fool, lady. Will he sacrifice his life for an empty throne which he has no de- sire to fili? I do not belfeve it. He has too much sense—he knows that we are wise enrough to be generous. I, my- self, will answer for his honor before Europe. What more does he ask? I tell you that ke is mad to refuse.” “He asks for Jjustice,” was her quiet response; “what right have you to judge him? None—you have none!” He crossed the room and laid a paper upon the table before her. “There is my authority, madame,” he cried, as one aping the manner of the theater. “Oblige me by admitting it!” Esther took the paper in her nervous fingers and turned to the table to read it. The light was dim and uncertain; he held a candle that she might see, and, holding it, could detect the rapid beating of her heart and the hot blood which flushed her cheeks while she read. “It is not in English,” she exclaimed presently; “I do not understand Span- ish, Doctor Xavier.” He laughed at his own mistake and took another paper from the pocket of his cape. “I had forgotten,” he said; “that Is the document. Read it carefully and note that there is a line left blank. Some one must sign the paper pres- ently; ah! you cannot see—shall I read it, then?"” Ehe pushed the parchment from her, for she knew that when it was signed Arthur would not have an hour to live. Such a challenge failed utterly if it were meant to shake her resolution. She left the paper upon the table and resumed her old attitude. “Why do you show me that?” she asked, a little absently; “what has it to do with me?” “S8o much that at a word from you I will burn it in yonder embers.” She regarded him unflinchingly. « “And the word? Oh, I understand that I must pay. You offer me some- thing; what is it?” “Your husband’s life, your own lib- erty, an honorable position in England, a generous recompense from my Gov- ernment—those are my proposals.” “You have made that offer before.” “Under other circumstances. Con- sider: your husband is obeying a fool- ish hallucination. He will go to the scaffold for a tradition five hundred years too old for the age; one person alone can zave him. The city names you as the agent of his downfall; it re- fuses to regard ycu as his wife, If you persist the law ke its This man, who h en your fr will lose his life at dawn; you will be sent across the frontier, penniless and branded as an adveniuress. There will be another President—we need not speak of him; he will be generous to you. Renounce your title te this man's protection.” “To his protection—how dare you?” “Bear with me. In the history of every court there is such a story as yours—the wife whom governments wil not recognize and princes must forget. I am compelled to speak frank- Iy. You can save my Prince from the scaffold; why should I beat about the bueh? Resign your claims upen him, say that he is free, keep your secret, return to your own country; my oath shall be your security. I swear to you upon the cross that we will keep faith with him. Let it be héte and now the solemn bond between us—ah! folly, you ask his life, then—you send him to the open grave.” He stepped back, the words broken abruptly upon his lips. Her cry of an- ger and shame echoed like a low moan in the silence of the night. Until that moment he had never understood her truly; but when she confronted him for the last time, with blazing eyves and heaving breast, and hands clenched and cheeks on fire, he knew -the wo- man and said that he had failed. “Gr she cried, a passion of hate and despair breaking her volce; “if it were my last word, I say go!” Her anger frightened him. It had been no surprise to him if she had fallen dead at his feet. Nevertheless, he did not spare her—he had expected such an outbreak. “Since that is your answer, madame,” he said deliberately, “I will return you mine. Here are pens and ink—I am going to sign this document without delay.” She stood to watch him, quivering like a leaf which a hot wind of night is blowing. He did not take his eyes from her face while he spread out the paper and feit for the mouth of the inkstand with the pen which the troop- er had provided. When he had signed the paper and dried the ink at the can- dle’s flame, he would have continued had he not been aware that the door of the cell stood open and that some one had entered it silently. A premo- nition of danger for which he could not account stilled the word upon his lips and sent his hand to his sword. A figure from the shadows advanced with shuffling step. It was that of a wo- man, gaunt and wan and terrible. She shuffled up to him and her face took shape in the aureole of the light. No word was spoken; she did not ac- cuse him—asked nothing, declared no intention. Some dreadful apparition might have loomed up out of the stilly night to break the word from the man’s lips and hold a young girl fascinated. Esther, indeed, moved neither hand nor limb. A scene long forgotten was being enacted again before her stagtled eyes. Once again she waited in the’garden of roses; the fountain splashed in the sun- shine; a vain woman babbled vainly; a face looked down upon her from a window; she was afraid but silent. And now she saw the face again, the hollow cheeks, the hectic flush, the withered skin, the outstanding bones, the lust of vengeance in the staring eyes. And the man, no less, shrank back; the pen tumbled from his hand, great drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. “Who are you? what do you want?"” he cried, hoarsely. The woman answered with resound- ing shrieks heard far beyond the prison walls—a knife flashed in the air: she struck at his throat and the blood gushed out upon her arms and tattered gown. “The curse of God be upon your palsied limbs!”"—a maniac spcke and laughed horribly—“as you sowed so shall you reap—now-enow—!" He fell headlong and she stabbed the prone body again and again. The lan- tern crashed upon the stone pavement; the table was overturned; the room lay in darkness save for the ebbing glow of the waning fire. Ncme intruded upon the scene; none came between the wo- man and the man. The awful laugh- ter subsided anon in a low groaning sound as of a mother fondling a child. To this silence succeeded; the shuffling step was heard descending the stairs one by one as though escape were a labor. Night engulfed the messenger of death; Esther was alone, and the door of her prison £tood open. CHAPTER XXI. A lambent flame twining about a log which the scuffle had dislodged, pene- trated the shadows with a generous beam of light and revealed the hidden shapes and all the evidences of strife. It showed Esther that to which her eyes had been blinded in the moment of the deed. For to her tragedy had been swift and paralyzing, robbing her of her common faculties and stilling her tongue. She had seen a face in the golden aureole, had heard an echo of mad laughter; and then the dead man lay at her feet and the lantern went out and the darkness of the supreme mystery enveloped her. She fled from the room and ran wild- ly down the stairs. If the unknown had passed out, what should forbid her? An iron-clamped door at the stairs foot mocked her confidence, and though she beat upon it with clenched hands and found her voice and cried hysterically for help, none answered her. The vain blows echoed vainly in the empty vault above. She sank upon a step, crouching as though afraid of that which must come after. Who watched in the darkness? she asked. ‘Who had let the woman out? What friend had been her confederate? Night passed and found her still hid- ing from the truth. She had lost the power to reason or to assoclate her own fortunes with this supreme trag- edy. Distant bells chimed the watch- ing hours, but none called to her pris- on. It was bitterly cold upon thé stair- . at once. whan the reiuctan ggling through the loopholed she stood up with numbed limbs and bloodless fingers, saying that day must bring release. Already 2 faint murmur of the city’s wakening life sent its message even to that close retreat. She heard the reveille sounded in the distant barracks. Jangling bells summoned the peasantry to mass; a sergeant’s voice commanded the chang- ing of the guard. For the Second time she would have raised the alarm, and beating loudly upon the door she thought to make the sentries hear her; but none responded, none answered to her knock. Esther remembered at this time the merry trooper, and how he had spoken of the mother Guanares and of her presence in the prison. It was her con- solation to assure herself that the man would return to her cell at daybreak, bringing her chocolate and the gossip of the barrack-room. She counted the minutes until he should come, fever- ishly afraid even of the morning light and half believing that the dead man still lived. When she heard a voice at last, she believed that the tropper spoke and she staggered to her feet and responded like one snatched from a liv- ing tomb. “Yes, yes—who is it?—I am here!” The summons came, oddly enough, not frem the courtyard before the Bar- bican Tower, but from that room of shadows she had fled in such terror. For an instant a terrible suspicion al- most stilled her heart. Was it Xavier who spoke, or another? She peered into the envelope .of darkness, vainly trying to discern a face. A man was descending the narrow $taircase with stealthy tread. His white bernouse took shape in the straggling light; his long brown robe trailed upon the stairs. She knew that it was Yussuf, the Moor, and with a sob of relief and joy she stretched out.her hands te him and bade him hasten. “It is T—Esther—I am here! They have Killed Doctor Xavier—please help me! Oh, my God, what shall I do!” The Moor caught the outstretched hand Tn an iron grip, and held up the fragile figure which fell swooning in his arms. He lifted it as a trivial bur- den and flung a cloak about its face. Keys at his girdle opened the heavy door and admitted him to the ccurt- vard. None challenged him in the sunny court without. The sentry read his passport as the merest formality. “So France has saved the little Eng- lish woman!” ant dawn It was the man’s only comment. e e im In a carriage driven swiftly away from the southern ramparts of Cadi, Esther opened her eyes when a quarter of an hour had passed and perceived that the sun was shining. A .swarthy flgure upon the seat before her regard- ed her with a woman's tender eyes. She did not know why the Moor sat there or recollect the circumstance of her deliverance. “‘Senora!” he said, “look up—it is the day!” “Wheére am 1?” she asked wildly. “What is it, Yussuf, what has hap- pened?” “Senora,” he said quietly, “much has happened. A man is dead who deserved to die. I know his life; he deserved to die. You—you know nothink; you were not as the others!"” She did not understand him; her thoughts were inconsejuent and capri- cious. The present compelled her cues- tions. What had happened? How had she escaped the cell? “You must tell me everything,” was her passionate command; “I have the right to know. Where is my hpsband —where are you taking me?” “To him, senora, in my own time. Listen: the French have forbidden his death, but the people may demand it. I.do net know; the day will tell us. Yussuf is your friend—he has been your friend many months. Obey him and he will be your servant. Here is the inn—we shall breakfast, senora.” The carriage stopped as he spoke be- fore the door of an inn which lay a mile to the south of the city's ram- parts. The road had carried them up- ward toward the pine forests and the pass. Countless white tents of the reg- iments, called in to quell the tumults, dotted the grassland; and troopers moved briskly from door to door, their blue uniforms looking brighter still in the sunshine. The city itsel? lay wreathed still in the morning mists; bells chimed the Argelus, muffled and indistinctly. Her obeditnce to the Mcor was un- questioning. Odd, indeed, that of all the friends whom fortune had sent, this man alone remained to befriend her. Her faith in him was absolute. She believed that he would take her to her husband. ' ¢ “We need all our strength,” he said; as one who a mystery. “We shall breakfas} at this inn, senora. The hours are few—they must find us faith- full” X “Senora,” he said, “let your courage help you. I take you to your husband. Come, we are already late. It is ‘fixed for mine o’'clock. God help us to be in time, senora!” She paled at his words, and stood up She knew of what he spoke. The word recalled instantly the threat of yesternight, the trial, the document. “Take me to.him—now!” she ex- claimed. ? 7 His eyes lighted with a certain pleas- ure at her impatience. “We must not go alone; the air is keen, senora. Please wrap your cloak about you—closer—closer. Let me see how well you look in it—ah, the cheeks are bright now, the eyes speak again. Rise up, senora—the hour has come!” She understood but little of that which he did. The bright blue cloak in which he had wrapped her was familiar and recalled an impression of the past. She had worn it before—but where, she asked. Memory, gathering strength of her impatience, told her at last; she had worn it in Francisco Xavier's house on the night when Arthur came! She remembered how he had called her Inez of Cadi, and had watched her amid the roses. And now the same cloak served her in this remote place! s hood was drawn over her head, its ample folds fell upon the ground at her feet. The Moor regarded her approv- ingly * * * the black eyes expressed pleasure. “Senora,” he said, “here is your horse. 1t is time, for us to show our- selves to the people.” A man brecught a white horse from a stable near by, and a pillion being already upon its back, Esther was lift- ed there and took the reins between her nerveless fingers. She knew noth- ing of that which they would do, nor had she any hope other than that which would carry her speedily to Ar- thur's side. When they began to go very carefully down the hillside toward the white tents below she believed that the road lay to the city and the prison. In the camp itself, a new activity drew the troopers from their tents and sent the officers pell-mell for arms and horses. News of the Spaniard’s death had just come to these outposts, and it passed as tidings of a visitation which would unite their nation’s story. The autocrat was dead, then! Vengeance had struck him down: his enemies had triumphed; his voice had been heard in the city’s councils for the last time. Prophets predicted that reaction would be swift to come. Others, who were no prophets, allowed the magnitude of the blew and its possible consequences. “It will help the Prince,” they said; “it may give him all!” The more timid reminded themselves that Arthur of Cadl was to be shot at nine o'clock; they heard the cathedral bell summon- ing the city to hear his last mass. And by these the figure of the woman was first perceived. They touched each other upon the arm, crying, “Look yon- der A white horse upon the hillside, a’blue robe, a fragile figure, a face of surpassing sweetness—there was noth- ing here to command alarm; neverthe- less the curious pressed about the travelers and crossed themselves in awe. Fanatics exclaimed, “It is Inez of Cadi, a miracle, a miracle!” A priest fell upon his knees and touched the earth with his forehead. The doubting had the will to laugh, but held their tongues notwithstanding. To all of whom the Moor answered nothing, nor would he open his lips to any man. His way lay to the colonel’s tent. Esther herself ‘but vaguely understood what legend awed the troopers or why they crossed themselves at her coming. Mo- ment by moment the buzz of wonder and surprise lifted a stronger voice and became a violent clamor. Men stretched out their hands to touch the hem of her garment. Many tried to run at the horse's head and to lead him; but the Moor beat them back. When he spoke they heard him with wonder. “I bring you the wife of your Prince,” he said. They answered, “Viva, Viva!” All the teachings of their race predisposed them to belief. The more ignorant prostrated, themselves before that which they deemed a miracle. The wiser, hearing the name, believed it was an omen, A thousand excited men clamored abbut the horse when the Moor demanded admittance to the col- onel's tent. Like news of a triumph the word went from ear to ear, “Inez of Cadi rideg down from the moun- tains!” Salvos of welcome were heard on the distant ramparts; the guard beat the mob back with the butts of their muskets. “I must see your colonel,” the Moor said, with the lofty utterance of one who has a mandate. “Let him know that I am here.” | They called the colonel out, and Es- ther looked up quickly when she heard his voice. Varez stood before her—Va- rez, the silent, the masterful.”” He car- ried papers in his hands; his head was bare. News of Xavier's death had. just come to him; his sword lay in the bal- ance; and he cast it from scale to scale like & man doubtful of the issues. For he knew that the night had changed all, and that it might yet save the Prince. When he perceived the figure upon the horse, the blue robe and the golden stars, the faith of his youth brought the blocod to his cheeks and sent a nervous hand to the hilt of his sword. For -the moment even he could not read the riddle. “Speak!"” he cried; “what does this woman do here?” A thousand voices lifted the ecry, “Viva, Inez!” He looked about him at the wonder- struck faces, the kneeling fanatics, and the old priest’s uplifted arms. So he understpod. “Madame,” he sald in a low voice, “what do you ask of me?” Esther pushed back her hood and re- garded him with ardent eyes. “‘My husband’s life!” she said. He cast down his eyes and stood ir- resolute. His troops caught the saying, and repeated it from man to man. “‘She is the Prince’s wife—an omen, friends! Heard you that? She asks his life!” Anon they shouted altogether, “Grace, grace! lead us down!"” The stern face wore a more kindly look when next it was lifted to Es- ther's. “Madame,” he said, answer these men?” “As a faithful friend to one who will remember!” “You shall lead them!” he said. He turned to the troops and repeated her saying: * “Here is one who will lead you to your Prince; how shall it be, my men —will you follow her?"” A mighty shout justified him. “Viva, Inez!" they crieq, “we follow —we follow!” a e e The troops entered the city at eight o’clock, and rumors of the miracle her- alded their approach, and brought anx- ious faces to every window. The doors of the churches stood open now, and priests there awaited confirmation of the wonder. The very poor accepted the story without question, saying that Inez of Cadi had come down from the mountains to save their Prince's life! Beggars bared their sores, cripples dragged themselves to the pavement's edge and lay there blinking in the sun- “how shall I shine. For the strife of parties ceased at the momentous news of Xavier's death; and the temper of reaction be- gan to make itself felt. A volte-face worthy of a southern race alarmed the partisan and encouraged the loyal. Men said that no ministry would dare to go on until events shaped more clearly and the ground of opinion was proved. The people were dazed before this s quence of alarms. Some satd that Xavier's party would stake all upon the throw, and hurrying the condemned to execution would profit by his death. Others hoped in France and had rumor at their back. Day found a waking city agape for the tides of fate. Al- most with the dawn a considerable throng pressed about the cathedral doors and waited for that solemn mo- ment when the man they had sworn to serve should hear the holy office for the last time. The market-place, the park, the piazza swarmed with troops looking for an emeute. Bells tolled dismally; the crowd spoke in timid whispers. The cafes were shuttered, the shops all closed. To this city, careworn and resolute, the messengers came down at the zen- ith of the hour. ‘“Inez of Cadi in at the head of two thousand!” they said. The news went as a voice of winds. Born in superstition, the ignorant prostrated themselves before the omen and ran fanatically to greet it. The wiser shook their heads and knew not what the saying might mean. Priests called for their robes and bade the faithful be patient. Unrest and expectancy were everywhere; little groups gathered at all the corners, and were moved on by a stern scldiery. Many a roof was black with people; the great piazza be- fore the cathedral could not contain the multitude. For a full hour the burning curiosity of these things went unsatisfied. Some denied the messengers, some scoffed, a very few were indifferent. Doubt had wrestled with desire and won the throw * * * but upon this the dis- tant rolling of drums was heard, and a low volley of human voices welcomed the figure of the miracle. “Varez rides in!"” they said, “It is not Varez, but another Soon the pageant shaped itself; d then, ; the gunlight fell upon the silver lances, the silver and gold of that shining capari- son. These above who had said that Varez was at the head of the troop re- called their words, and named another for the leader. “It is a woman!"” they exclaimed. And then louder, “It is Inez of Cadi!" A roar of sounds hailed the truth and confessed the legend. Many knelt and were half crushed with the press; priests raised their hands in blessing; strong men were silent and awed. Min- ute by minute the cavalcade drew nearer, the music of the bands swelled out in cadences more solemn, the pen- nons fluttered on the breeze in increas- ing numbers. The moments of wait- ing were intolerable by this time. Who came then? What story was this? A young girl riding upon a white horse, what did she there? With one re- sounding note the people named her. “Inez of Cadi!” they wailed, “it is Inez of Cadi!” The salvos followed her to the cathedral door. She entered there like one whom all would worship. VR e S i i Esther has confessed that her mem- ory of this last great scene is but fitful and unsure. From the moment when Yussuf, the Moor, carried her from the prison she was scarcely the mistress of her ecwn actions, and she heard and saw all things as in a picture of her sleep. Even the words she spoke were forgotter. She could recollect nothing of her appeal to Colonel Varez, or the act which had placed her at the head of his troops. Thereafter she lived for an hour in wonderland. The madness of worship sounded in her ears like the murmur of a distant sea. She beheld countless faces, and carried the image of some of them—the faces of loving ‘women, of beggars by the wayside, of old priests at their church doors. For the rest, the panorama changed too quickly that she could recollect it. Street succeeded to street, throng to throng; she perceived the multitudes above, the multitudes below; she heard the swelling musie, the clatter of the roofs. But her thcughts were always carrying her forwzid, over the throngs as upon the wings of impatience to the great churchyard and its golden altars. They told her afterward that men would have lifted her from her horse at the ehurch door but that she denied their right; and, riding in, entered without question, like one whose jour- ney was not yet done. In the cathe- dral itself twenty thousand worshipers heard the ringing hoofs upon the mar- ble flags and bent their heads before the vision. Blue-robed priests at the altar staved their ministrations and turned to see who came. One man alone awaited the messenger with con- fidence; his sword trailed upon the marble floor, beams of the radiant light fell through the crimson glass and struck down upon his gold cuirass; his face was flushed, his arms outstretched to the figure of his salvation. He it was who lifted the figure from the horse, he who held the trembling girl in his strong arms and cried: “My wife! my wife!"” They knelt together before the altar, and the ¢ld priest blessed them. Sun- shine was upon their faces, joy in their hearts. To the God of their destinies they offered their hearts and their lives. But the people still cried, “A miracle!” CHAPTER XXIL The story of Esther Venn and her re- lations with the kingdom of Cadi is too recent in its-more public phase that we should carry it any further in these pages. Standing with her husband be- fcre the altar of the cathedral of St. Ignatius, she herself has answered those evil tongues which a woman’s victory must ever loosen. Henceforth her life is to be lived in that old-world palace, wherefrom for a thousand years the princes of her city have ruled a willing people. By faith she conquered, by love will she be justified. She was a woman, and her womanhood led her through the valley of the dows. Europe has listened to her story and judged her character wisely. The af- termath is her own, to be reaped by her affections. We say that by her own act in the cathedral of St. Ignatius she saved her husband’s life, and this claim the years have justified. Though she knew it not, a straw had turned the people’s temper upon the day of his miraculous deliverance. Francisco Xavier's tragic end found a tninistry unready and a senate bewildered. While the timid uld have abandoned all, shielding themselves behind the status quo, the more resolute planned a tour de force which kneW no law but that of might. Thus it befell that while one party would annul the judgment and open the prison gates, the other stood reso- lutely to its purpose and demanded that the law should take its course. It is true the French Government had ready determined to depart from its accepted practice, and to interfere for the first time in twenty years in the affairs of this little kingdom. But di- plomacy is slow and riot speedy. At the best mandate of France would have saved Prince Arthur from the scaffold if it had saved him at all. His life hung upon a thread. The French sec- retary, Alfonse Manin, has admitted in a letter to the Minister in Paris that the thread had snapped but for a wo- man's courage and the faithful friend- ship which served in that hour of nee: “Colonel Varez has saved the day the secretary wrote. “The allies he found could exist nowhere but in this city of legends. It is early yet to esti- mate precisely the extent to which the people have acted upon their supersti- tions and the part which commen sense has played in their decision. Esther Venn, whose marriage must now be recognized by Europe, appealed suc- cessfully to a people long taught to ad- mire her race and to Imitate it. She is clever, quick, undoubtedly courageous, and her beauty will become a tradition. I count it not a little remarkable that 2 pupil of the dead man, Xavier de Montalvan, should be the agent of his undoing. It will be known to your Ex- cellency that this man’s story is largely ome of those intrigues which blackened an extraordinary character and pros- trated genius at the footstool of famy. That he was the possessor of a vast intellect, I do not deny; that he was the enemy of woman is equally true. For years his leisure appears to have been devoted to effeminate studies which, by their very nature, unfitted him for the healthier tasks. It is clear that when first he met the English gi he had no other cbjects than those which must have been apparent to all the world: but the arrtval of Prince Arthur at his house, and the interest which was awakened by a very beauti- ful protegee, diverted his aims and fathered this conspiracy. I have no doubt that he believed the Prince's ruin would be consummated by marriage It was his object to keep his Highn permanently away from Cadi. When he found that prudence guided his mas- ter less than inclination, and that he would return here in spite of all, then, and not until then, he resolved upon his trial, and, it may be, his h. I have already informed your Excellency of the circumstances which have con- spired to defeat him. That he should fall by a woman's hand is a just Ne- mesis with which none will quarrel. I believe him to have been the enemy of French interests and the paid servant of %pain. Now that he is dead none regrets him. The city has been drugged for many months past by smooth- tongued agitators, who applauded bon- dage and cried heaven to witness that a dictator would save the republic. * * * Their influence being removed, the spontaneous loyalty of a servile race is very ready to assert itself. Writing to-night in my room overlook- ing the church of St. Ignatius, I must turn to a dead age to recall a scene of national rejoicing so abandoned and so picturesque. Modernity has lost its en- thusiasms. We can wave a flag and ring a bell, perhaps dine overwell at the Cafe Anglais, or sup with a becom- ing air of dissipation at any restaurant which robbery has made famous. But this abandonment of joy, this surrender to the primitive instincts, is found only among half-civilized people. Here in the streets before my eyes-are hillmen dressed as their forefathers were in the days of the crusaders. Women dance about the beacon-fires, and their jet-black hair streams cut like ban- nerets upon the wind. The fountains are running wine—so at least the reel- ing figures lead me to believe. kcount a hundred torches in a space of as many yards. The sky above glows crimson with the flaming lights. Every cafe is open, every table crowded; men embrace for joy; young girls rave hys- terically; soldlers, priests, rich and peor, noble and peasant, swarm to- gether in this frenzy of the night. The palace is a blaze of light from end to end; throngs press to its doors to halil the Prince, and when their torches fail them are replaced by others no less delirfous. Bands blare in every public place. The confines of the city are too narrow for this pageant of a nation's madness. T see the beacons on the dis- tant hills like crimson stars upon a fat horizon, and they link up a mighty gihrdle embracing height and chasm, lighting the silvered ice-fields or show- ing the heart of sleeping woods. From gorge to gorge and pass to pass the tidings go, ‘Long live the Prince!” They join in name to his, and utter it as one endeared to them—yes, the little English girl has won all hearts. I sa- lute her; she is worthy of the tribute!" D LT R R T R T He sealed his letter and sent it to France to be her witness. If he would have added aught, it had been that the dawn broke upon a sleepless city, and that tha veice of the multitude was Esther'’s lullaby. The sunshine fell upon her tired face and found her dreaming. She slept upon her lover's heart. in- THE END. ez