The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1886-11-04
JEAN PEGOLAN.

JEAN PEGOLAN.
Jean Pegolan, farmer of Eyevettes, is
in a good humor this evening. Around
him the wind is signing among the
leaves of the trees the melancholy song
of autumn, while the low sun is sending
its red. level rays through the branches.
The sky is dark blue, the scent-pene-
trating and spIcy-of the fallen leaves
fills the forest, and Jean Pegolan, moved
half unconsciously by the ripe, mellow
beauty of all around him, touches his
good gray mare with his whip lightly
to hurry her on her homeward way.
1t is true that the German army is
marching on Paris; true that the Prus-
slams have pillaged a village here,
burned a farmhouse there, and even
that they have shot some inoffensive
peasants now and then; but. after all,
what is that to Jean Pegolan?
His horses. his cattle, his fields have
not suffered from the marauders.
In the town where he has just sold his
crops he saw some Prussians-and real
ly they were not such monsters-but
men like ourselves.
Just as he turns at the Croix-Verte,
the village with its high church tower,
the weathercock on the top, turned to
burning, molten gold by the rays of the
setting sun, meets his eye.
At that sight Jean Pegolan smiles,
already he tastes in imagination the
good soup smoking on the table in ex-
pectation of his arrival, and his mouth
waters.
"Allonsi Hue la Grise
To-, N,.1e 4
man aide-de-camp has ridden up, and
forced to draw rein by the narrowness
of the road, and Jean Pegolan, being
rather slow in turning ont for him, the
officer raises his whip and the lash cuts
across the farmers face from ear to ear
Certainly the farmer of Eyevettes has q
most profound respect for the conquerors
of his native land, but at this blow rage
filled his heart. Standing up in his cart
he returns it with interest.
The heavy wooden seat comes crash
ing down upon the head OF the Prus-
sian, who tumbled off his horse with a
broken skull
In the forest the trees are tall; silence
broods over all; the moon is rising
slowly above the horizon from behind Il
veil of light, transparent clouds.
Pegolan, his rage gone as quickly as
it came, glancos fearfully about him.
The Prussian has tumbled head fore
most into a dry ditch, his heels high in
the air, his face buried in the mud at
the bottom. There is small fear of his
returning to relate this adventure to his
brothers in arms.
Gallons! Hue la Grise!" And the
mare bounds under the lash and sets off
for home at gailop
They have all been driven like a flock
of sheep into the church-the peasants
of the neighborhood.
They are huddled together in the nave
of the building-some very pale, others
very red-the throats of all choked with
fear. Through the tall, unpainted win
dows of the church crude light falls.
cutting large bleak squares upon the
rude blouses and lighting up cruelty
these faces, of which terror has drawn
the lips and pinched the nostrils. Above
the altar, between two unlighted wax
tapers, hangs a great plaster image of
the crucified Savior; its outstretched
arms seemed to be blessing those below.
From the graveyard surrounding the
church come the heavy, pungent odors
of the dying leaves, mingled with the
ehattering of the sparrows quarreling
among the tombstones.
The evening before a German patrol
had discovered at the crossroads of the
Croix-Verte the body of the murdered
Uhlan lying in the ditch-murdered by
one of the cowardly peasants without
doubt
At dawn a battalion of Saxon chas-
bo., int
by order of the commander, ali the men
round about have been driven into and
shut up in the church. They have been
given till noon to discover and deliver
up the assassin TO Justice. That time
past, and the murderer not found, the
village with its outlying farms will be
set on fire.
Half-past II has just been tolled from
the clock tower. o. if they, the peas
ants. only knew who this assassin. this
murderer, this bandit was. who had
brought them into this predicament,
how gladly would they deliver him up.
If necessary, they would hang him with
their own hands. But, alas, they dc
not know, and time is passing. He
who could free his neighbors and
| friends from this embarrassment, who
! could say to them with truth: 1.-The
murderer, the assassin, the bandit-it is
I-behold himr' he is very careful not
to utter a word. Seated in the shadow
of one of the confessionals, his CAP
| drawn down tightly over his eyes, sick
with fear, Jean Pegolan thinks of his
wife-so young and enticing; of his
COWS Illuminating peacefully in the mea'
dow; of his hay bursting through the
windows of his granary; and he tell:
himself that to die now is to leave al
these good gifts of Providence forever.
Would he not therefore be very stu
| pid to confess? After all, he did moi
mean to kill the Prussian; he had no
idea he struck so hard. And with these
arguments ne quiets his conscience.
If the lot to die falls on an innocent
man, why, so much the worse for the
poor wretch-yes, everybody for him,
self in this selfish world.
Ding, dong, ding. Eleven and three
quarters ring out from the church stee
pie.
Only quarter of an hour left to then
to make up their minds.
The vibrations of the bell die slowly
away. and silence, like great darl
bird, falls down upon the vaulted room
Then the regular, heavy tread of {
company of soldiers is heard outside
| a harsh voice calls 'Haltn' and til,
butts of the muskets fall with hollow
Changing sound on the ground. De
cidedly it is time for the prisoners in
the church to discover the murderer.
Now one among them whispers 6
name. 1t is only whisper, yet some
how every one has heard it. Quickly
quickly those about who have no desire
to be shot or turned out of house anC
home take it up-it resounds from
every side.
Jean Pegolan draws great breath
of relief 1t is not his name that he