The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1877-10-31
RIS GUARDIAN ANGEL.


gathering about the church, whose bell
was calling to vespers. The women
shivered as they glanced in the dark
strange face, and whispered that, hand
soma as it was, there was an evil spirit
in him. A wild, gloomy, fell face indeed,
in which sorrow and passion and dire
purpose had set their seal, never TO be
softened save by one thing never to be
broken save by one hand.
Is he searching for some one, that he
half pauses as he comes on and looks,
with his great cleaning black eyes, from
face to face of the passing groups? If
SO, he is ever searching, for they say that
he always has that look-and he has been
long enough about the vicinage of Yer
bois sur Loire for them to notice that,
and to know his name, Count Max de
st. Mar. But who he is. or what his
history, and why he haunted the place,
no one knew, and none care to ask the
gloomy, lonely stranger, who came and
went, silent, solitary and watchful.
A heavy frown darkens that strange,
handsome face now, as he sees how afraid
of him they are. The tall, slight form
shivers as he passes swiftly on, stunning
THE wooded banks of the fast flowing
Loire.
Who is he? who is he? To what
strange story is that gloomy, suffering,
passionate face an index? Is he reckless
daredevil? Is the doom of dark deed
upon him f? Or is he hugging close
great vengeance which is eating out heart
and soul, and forging each hour, new
link to the chain which binds him to the
Gates of Darkness !?
What sound is it that meets his ear as
he moves on, with a step now slow and
weary? Not the chanting from the church
away behind him; not the ceaseless rush
of the waters before him. No, the rich
soft tones, mellow and full as the night
ingale's note, of girlish voice singing
Ito herself, it seemed. He knew the
sweet melody, and started to hear the
words so distinctly.
Agnus Del, qai TOLLS peccata mundi,
miserere nobis.
Yet he paused as if fascinated, till the
last soft cadence died away. Then he
pushed aside the branches of the trees,
and came out upon the river bank.
There she sat with lap full of flowers,
beautiful golden-hared child, for she
scarcely numbered sixteen years, with
great dreamy, loving eyes, and an ex
9uisite Madonna face.
Light as his step was, she heard it and
turned. Would she too shrink and fly !?
did she too know his name and whisper
that he was possessed and cast in shad-
ow? and if so, was it not true Had he
not hidden his cross away twenty years
ago, and clasped devil to his breast in
stead? nestled the dark thing into his
very heart SO close that his Guardian An
gel had lost all hold save one frail thread
of gold?
No, she does not shrink but as his
tall, slight figure comes between her and
the waters, she looks up in his face and
smiles, half in sweet childish recognition,
half with the deep tender pity that an
angels face might wear. InvOluntarily
the gloomy stranger paused, in very Won
der that she too did not shrink from his
glance.
"Child, art thou weaving offerings to
the river god ?" he said, pointing to the
flowers the deep voice was full of
music.
"Ah, no; they would die" said the
girl, shaking her golden head. ''Some
these white fowers--are for the church,
not these roses. Will Monsieur accept
this one 2"
The little fingers picked out the most
beautiful moss rose, and offeredit "You
will not be robbing la Sainte Verge, M.
de ST. Mar p
He took the rose gravely, and laying
his hand lightly on her head, said:
" She would not say thee nay if thou
gathered them, my child"
Somehow it came naturally to his lips
to call her child. She was so very young
and fair and he full twenty years older
with lines on his brow, and gray hairs
straying among his coal-black locks.
How is it," he added, suddenly
"that you do not fear me like the others?'
The blue eyes looked up woDderingly
" Fear you'll Oh, no, l am only sOrr.
for you"
Sorry for him! Was he dreaming
Why should this pure being be sorry TO
him? The fash of light in the blacl
darkness of his soul dazzled him.
He had placed the rose in his breast
now he folded his arms tightly. Did tn
fell thing that lay there coiled so closel
culver and tremble at the soft voice tina
stole from far off to its jealous ear.
Not afraid-sorry, he repeated
looking down on her, "Child, what d
they call your"
NJ. lie Comte, they call me La Cora.
" A sweet name; but thou art n
peasant born girl, Cora"
Peasant; oh, no" she said smiling
I" No more than NJ. de St. Mar"
How know you who or what / am
he said quickly.
{" | only know Monsieur's name"
"Do you live among the fairies, Cora:
The girl smiled again and answered
,, No, she was living with NJ. lie Cure, he
dead mothers brother.
The dark strange man stood lookin
J down on the child. "Belle petite, viol
votre rose know you what itvmeans
Flora's graceful language?"
"LoVel" he repeated, half aloud j
5 Italian, with such bitter emphasis TIL
the child shivered; "never more for m
: Lost, lost! sold for the one thing lie
me; the demon have Rugged till naugl
else is left to Max de ST. Mar"
"Naught else but what, signor milo
said the child's plying tones in softe
s Etruscan.
# The man started back Nothin
n child nothing Take back the rose,
is not for me-"
o But the little fingers stayed his har
Q ere it could take the flower from b
= breast. Power Intellect wear it, al
Q when it is dead La Cora will give y,
% another"
9 The slender, white-robed form Gid
y away through the trees. Was it chi
o lowering on the confines between g
20 and womanhood, or was it an angel or
% vision /? No, there nestled the rose
n his breast, there In his ear still liDger
: the deep pathetic pity and sorrow in the