The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1890-10-30

the life of his daughter, and said that she
knew nothing of the plan for Vahan's be-
travail, and that even he loved the young
man so well that he had planned capture
where death would have been more easily
accomplished. So great was the peoples
love for their prince that their rage knew
no bounds. The old man was condemned
to death BY fire. He stood in the midst of
the flames more like martyr than the ac-
cursed sorcerer that he was, and cried as
the fire ragged about him, 90 spirit of firel
thank thee that my sin against thee is
purified in thine embraces"
Such was the force of the fathers en-
treaties. aud such was the sanity beauty
of her own pure face, that some would
have freed the maiden. But many a beauty
among the court ladies, on whom Vahan
had ever looked with disdain, could scarce
restrain her nails from blowing that
face, whose crime IN her eyes was not
that it had caused Armenia the loss of
many victories, but that 1t had won the
love of Vahan. She was condemned to
the milder death by the sword, though
many thought her viler magician than
her father, so wickedly fair was her en-
chantment Of beauty. for our priests tell
us, in the words of the Holy Book, that
the devil often appears as an angel OF
light
While she lay in prison, awaiting execu-
ton, Vahan heard of her condition. Ours
ing her judges and betrayers, he took
horse for the capital. He rode like the
wind, night and day, and even his Koord-
Ish mare, that, under a forayer, had jour
neyed for three days without food or rest,
whose limbs were like marble in their
firmness, dropped dead on the second
morning. Four horses died beneath the
furious rider, and still he came too late.
On the morning of his arrival the maiden
had been brought into the public square,
and taken upon the platform constructed
in its center None of the spectators had
ever seen so beautiful a being. Down
from her queenly head, about the fairest
of faces and loveliest Of forms, ripping
even to her feet, fell the richness Of her
hair, soft and silken as the spiders thread,
and golden as the sunlight. This glorious
Witchery the executioner severed first to
allow the free sweep Of his sword. The
vindictive queen, Vahan's mother, was by
her side, and gathered up the locks as they
fell. Then she scattered them to the
winds, and laid curse upon them, saying:
80 cleaning locks of the Fire Witch, that
like marsh light would have lured my
son to destruction, be ye scattered to the
four corners of the world, to be a witness
to Armenian and to Persian, to Christian
and to unbeliever, of the wickedness of
this enchantressl A curse be on you, that
We rest not forever, either upon the earth
or sea or in the heaven, that the memory
of her treachery may ever remain"
As she ended down the valley in the dis
lance came Vahan. urging wearied steed
and crying, "Innocentl innocentp But
the executioner was deaf to all commands
save the queens, and blind to all beauty,
even that of saint, for saint the maiden
surely seemed, with the shorn locks Of
gold surrounding her sorrowful face as
the halo hovers over the weeping Mother
Mary. The great two handed sword whis-
tied through the air, and the enchantress
was no more. The queen and all that were
there fed like towards from the frantic
curses of Vahan. All alone did he mourn
over her body, and then departed to throw
away his life in desperate battle with the
Persians. He and Vartan, his father, per-
ished on the day when Armenia was freed
Still, over the hills and valleys, forests
and streams, float the silken hairs on
which the curse was laid. They rest not,
neither on the earth below nor in the
heaven above, but float forever between
them, a memorial to all the world of the
saint like enchantress, and the little Ar
menian children say, as they see the long
golden threads stretching over the mead
ows in motionless suspense, There floats
the Voki-Vosdein, the spirit spider thread
that would have caught Vahan in its
meshesp'
But in Persia they revere the old man
and his daughter as patriots and martyrs,
and look on the gossamer as a memorial
of that virtue which triumphs over love
and death itself.
Yet, however that may be, whether she
was angel or fiendish enchantress, the Ar
menisns to this day cannot abide red hair.
Marion NJ Miller in Short Stories.