Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-06-22
come in and make merry over my poor

come in and make merry over my poor
store of provisions.
The stranger scarcely needed the her.
mit's last words, for the old stone-pile
afforded him keen interest, and he
sprang up the dark, winding stairway
with it's eighty steps, feeling the light
ness of renewed youth in every move
ment.
At intervals narrow windows pierced
the wall, admitting ray of light, and
showing the great thickness of the
Missionary. In the wall surrounding the
top were higher windows, sheltered on
three sides, where warriors had stood to
watch for and shoot arrows down on
eDcroaching enemies; one Of these safe
hooks being still sheltered by roof ter
mlnatlng in a curious blunted point,
brown and irregular, as if the instinct of
beast rather than the hands of a man
had finished it.
The newcomer, fascinated by the
view, and carried away into the dim
past by the suggestions which the old
tower called forth, forgot himself and
time completely, until looking at his
watch he found he had spent more than
an hour among the ghosts of a heather
age which his imagination had gathered
round him.
He descended the steps and found
himself again in the hermit's dreary
little room; but it was empty, and the
door was still locked on the outside.
The stranger felt no uneasiness, for
the old man must soon return with his
daily supply of water, but fell to exam
lining the fragments of furniture which
the tiny, ill-hghted room contained.
The bed was only heap of straw,
covered with ragged gray blanket. on
a wooden frame, a roughl y-made chest,
on which stone Jug and loaf of bread
were set, served duty also as chair and
table. A crucifix hung on the uneven
wall, and few utensils of the common
est kind, some firewood and few pota-
toes were heaped together on the stone
floor in a dark corner.
Surely the man who existed in this
dreary place without going mad must
have in his past life unfailing food for
meditation
Another hour passed, and still the
door was unlocked The wayfarer be-
gan to feel some Impotence, mixed with
shade of uneasiness. Gould the old
hermit be playing him false ? But no;
the idea was nonsense. What motive
could the recluse have for keeping an or
binary traveller prisoner in his cell?
Night began to gather slowly, and the
silence of the place continued, grave-like
as ever. Weary with waiting the traveller
| began to shake the door with all his
might, and shrek for some one to come
to his release, but his efforts were utterly
without avail. The door was of heavy
oak, clamped with iron, unyielding as
the solid wall itself, and only the birds
and foxes heard and wondered at his
cries.
Thick darkness came on, and still no
sound of approaching footsteps. Either
Morcar, the hermit was plotting against
him for evil, or a dire accident had be-
fallen him. In any case the stranger be-
gan to realize that he must spend the
night prisoner in the tower.
Fortunately he had matches in his
pocket-a good, generous box full-and
with the aid of these he discovered a
rushhght In one corner, which relieved q
little the gloom in which he was plunged.
Hunger and thirst now began to assert
themselves, but these wants were un-
satisfactorily stilled by the brown bread
and water from the stone jar on the
chest.
The hours dragged YEARLY by, and at
last he threw himself upon the wretched
bed to sleep, if possible, till release came
in the morning. At daybreak he again
mounted the outlook at the top to watch
for some deliverer to come, but though
he waited hours not creature appeared.
The foresters had gone home before sun
set the previous day, and there was nc
hope from them.
The second day dragged itself slowly
away.
"Heavens above Am I to be kept q
prisoner here till I starve !'' he cried, the
great solitude expressing him like a
black clond.
Again he shouted from the top of the
tower till he was hoarse, but no soul
heard, and he beat the heavy door till
his hands were bruised and bleeding.
Then, Gained by fatigue, he examined
a little more carefully his painful stu
alton. Sliding down the outer wall by
means of the climbing ivy, was certain
death, as the tower was very high and
the vines but fragile things. The win
OOWo OFOIy WuSIo were only S11GS large
enoughfor him to thrust an arm through,
but no more, and there was no heavy
implement In the little room with which
he could break through that cruel door.
He must only wait until some one
heard his cries for help, or else die alone
in that ghostly heather tower-relic of a
past age, that would willingly crush out
the Life OF any mortal from the present
garish world who invaded it's silence.
The prisoner was growing superstitious
and fanciful in his prolonged confne-
ment, and a presentiment possessed him
that old Morcar, the hermit, would never
return to the tower again, and no one
else knew of his captivity.
In the room below there was food
enough of the simplest kind to support
life perhaps for week, or ten days at
least, and an earthen pot on the top of
the tower caught enough rain, falling
abundantly in the night to ward off the
/ IT