Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1889-03-17

not be heard. The dead could have heard
it, if anything is ever heard bv the dead.
Orton came near losing his guard when
that burst of startling sound broke from the
old mans bearded mouth. The edge of the
cutlass reached his shoulder lightly, but did
not sever the covering afforded by his jacket
AS an experiment the young man now tried
desperately to disarm Rochon, but the
rapier was too light and Rochon's hand toe
strong for that. The effort gave the old man
an advantage in the end which cost Orton a
wound, slight, but painful, on the top Of
his head, while he in turn pricked Rochon
in the left shoulder SO deep that the blood
spun forth rather freely. Both men felt
that the struggle must soon end, and each
felt confident that it would end in his favor.
The action became furious, as if to keep
time with the grand cracking and below
ing of the fire now leaping in one broad,
rimpled, tapping tongue. slanting far across
the bayou. The men had promptly obeyed
Rochon's loud order, and the masts of the
little schooner were moving slowly through
the rolling current of smoke to a safe dis
tance from the fire. The creaklng of
ropes and the clacking of rowlocks were
blended with shouts and cries. All the
smaller sounds of the night were swallowed
up in the tempest-lil1e throb of the fame
The two wary and straining combatants felt
the intense heat of the melting house, and
this, with the exkausting muscular and
nervous effort, caused the perspiration to
leap from every pore of their bodies.
Breathing became husky and rapid, a
hoarse painting that told OF rapidly ebbing
strength. Round and round they fought,
giving and receiving wounds, bleeding
freely, glaring at each other, clink, clank,
swish, whack! back and forth, lunging,
thrusting, feinting, slashing, each irving to
keep the dazzling fire behind him, each
thinking that surely the other must soon be
exhausted; cut. parry, thrust, parry, prime,
quartz, high. low. the blades notched and
changing, the wrists aching, the throats dry
and scorched, the white foam spraying from
lips and beard, and the broad chests palpi-
tating; on they fought, keeping their
strength by sheer, desperate will-force, each
thinking only of killing the other. Yes,
Orton had another thought-the Lilly of
Rochon. He could not (if he had tried }
have forced the vision from his inner sight.
He saw her. sweet and tall, like lily, in
deed, pass back and forth before his ewes,
smiling and calm, and all unconscious of
the awful stress OF his situation.
Neither combatant as yet had received
any serious wound, though very narrow had
been the margin of life at many point in
the fight; but Rochon began to realize the
NO1QGTIul
vim and tenacitv OF his younger and suppler
antagonist. Something told Orton what
was going on in the old mans mind, and,
gathering all his reserve of strength, he
made a mighty squirt, pressing desperately
upon him, forcing him back rapidly toward
the pale of the garden. He, too, called up
his last resource of energy and returned the
dash with interest, driving Orton for a
moment and almost breaking him down BY
the weight of his attack. The reaction
weakened both men greatly. They stag
gered clumsily here and there, but kept
their guards with wonderful persistence
fencing feebly but accurately, and still
maneuvering for the best light, while
slowly the fast-burning house settled down
into heap of glowing and melting brands
Most of Rochon's men had returned (save
those who never would return) and were
busy with looking after their dead and
wounded comrades, whom they bore to the
boats. The moon assened itself a little as
the fire grew dull and red. Somewhere in
the distant hollows of the woods a great
owl hooted dolefully. Still with faltering
weakness the fight went on between the two
staggering, tottering, almost exhausted
men. Now ana again one or the other tried
to rally and squirt, but it was only to stare
little more Indignantly and to lunge or
thrust all the more impatiently. Their
blades clinked with a thin weak sound
irregularly and with desultory rasping and
dragging. The white clots of foam on their
chins and lips were streaked with blood,
their hats were gone, their hair matted,
their clothes torn and cut to shreds.
And yet out of their startling and vigi-
liant eyes flashed the indomitable
will of the born fighter, the spirit of the un-
conQuerable animal man. Yet even in this
Felicie Rochon; scarcely thinking either
but simply and sweetfy conscious of her and
of the precious tenderness she Had engen-
dered in his life. Down sank the burning
brands into Goals and embers, the work of
but few minutes indeed so rapidlv had
the dry resinous pine of the house melted in
the heat, and up sailed the white moon,
freeing itself from the shifting wisps of Jog
and pouring down upon the Landscape a
strange, silvery brilliance that shimmered
on water and marsh and flashed on the
waving foliage of the dusky magnolias
beyond the slough.
Rochon swung his cutlas feebly and made
a dogged slash at Orton, who parried it
with splrltless weakness. Their blades
were high and the two men stumbled to-
gether, struggled clumsily and fell. Orton
below, Rochon above. The mere weight of
the old man held his foe down, but in the
lall their weapons had dropped from their
nerveless hands. Struggling was over with
both men, neither had strength to do more
than lie there and pant chokinglv. Con-
siderable blood had been lost BY each and
the red tide was still trickling from a num-
Der of ugly but not necessarily dangerous
wounds. Probably Rochon was less hurt
than Orton, and it is quite possible that,
despite his years, he was even less affected
hr-T ha4 oF
Moreover, the old man had been used to
dangerous and even deadly combat, and SO
was more apt to keep well in mind his pur-
pose to kill and the will power to bear it
out. He fumbled numbly for the sheath
knife in his belt, and had barely strength
draw and lift it. but he tried in vain to send
its point into Orton's throat. The weapon
sank into the soft sand beside his neck.
81 am at your mercy" gasped the young
man, 'kill me if you like, but-but-' He
had to gather breath before he could go on.
"Send word to my father, General Horace
Orton, at New York.
''What did you say?" growIed Rochon,
trying to recover the knife for another blow.
'What do you want eh?''
LET my father, General Horace Orton,
know Of my death" ortOn repeated with
greet effort.
Roehon had worked his left hand down
upon the young mans throat and was try
ing to choke him; but when he heard the
name of General Horace Orton, he slack
ened his grasp, if grasp it might be called,
just as his foe tainted from exhaustion and
loss of blood. Rochon thought him dead,
and slipping from his body sat there grimlv
looking at the pale, motionless face up
turned in the moonlight.
As in dreams we live through a long
series of dramatic experiences in a second OF
time, so old Rochon, during the moment
that he glared into the young mans eoun-
tenance, with the phrase: General Horace