Lewiston teller. [volume] (Lewiston, North Idaho) 1878-1900, 1890-07-24

Like SWORD piercing MIN to the
soul, n vision of his wife buried
beneath the ruins filled him with
mortal anguish.
He started on the run in the direc-
ton of his villa. Was she dead-dy-
ing-or living still? She was crushed.
perhaps, her lovely body n shapeless
mass, caught between two walls.
Horror! All! how one suffers in such
moments! Would he arrive in time?
The count shook his fist at the sky.
great tears rolling down his cheeks.
He did not even take the trouble to
wipe them away. He hurried on,
stumbling at every step among the
stones and heaps OF timber. treading
on dark objects which moved and
groaned. The air was rent with terri
BILE cries-cries of animal in torture.
shrillcries ofchildren. ngonized groans
of women, loud ut first, then weaken
ing little by little and ceasing in the
death rattle. There were despairing
calls though the'darkness, "Father!'
"Mother!" "Sonw and invocations
to the divine mercy, ''Jesu! Maria
Santissima" and every stone, every
ruin gave forth IA gronn. The count
passed shadows staggering like
drunken men, walking on tiptoe with
arms stretched out before them, or
seated motionless like statues of de-
ISOLATION; Others, holding on their
knees heavy dropping bodies which
no longer responded to their endear-
ments. Women, disheveled, danced.
with uplifted skirts, mad. One would
verify have believed ones self with
Dante.
The moisture cold on his brow,
frozen with horror, the wretched .Jep-
pi leaped over corpses, scaled walls,
and the one thought necessarily
beating in his brain, like the ticking
OF n clock, was, "Shall l arrive in
time?" At the corner of II street he
saw by the light OF the moon WON.
ans arm thrust out from under u
heap of fallen beams, n naked arm
caught as in wise. The white hand,
loaded with rings, writhed like a crab.
The cries of the sufferer. deadened,
stifled under the debris. could not be
heard, but those twitching fingers
called for help, and this hand, thrust
out into space, shrieked: "To the
rescue!' The count could have res
cued her. He turned away his head
and passed on. He had not the time.
After retracing his steps more than
twenty times, after wandering about
for over an hour, he arrived ut last
belore what had been his dwelling.
What a sight! The charming villa,
the villa OF kisses and flowers, was
now but a smoking mass OF ruins.
One side of the wall alone remained
upright, and overhead, in it's cage of
gilded osier, cooed turtle dove,
which the countess had cherished. 1t
was touching sight, this poor, frail
little bird, suspended between heaven
and earth in it's dainty house-this
dove of miracle, as if 30 prove that
the God who, in his terrible and mys-
terious power, RACED cities to their
foundations in an instant, could
equally, if it were his will, save the
life of dove.
At the sight of these great stones,
piled one above the other, the count
ielt himself turn weak as child.
She was there, underneath this mass,
his adored wife. Where, in which
direction? Even if she were dead, he
must find her at any cost. Softly,
with intimate precautions with steps
of velvet, clinging to the projections,
he ventured among the ruins of his
house. He hesitated before setting
his foot down anywhere, as if fearful
of trampling upon her beloved body.
Suddenly he thought he heard-he
did hear-a distant voice, but SO
faint one might have said it was but
a breath, sigh borne by the wind.
He stopped. 1t was subterranean
voice, woman's voucher voice.
he recognized it now. He could not
distinguish whatshe was saying, but
it was, indeed her caressing voice,
calling to him from the depths of
that fearful night, where she believed
herself immured forever.
II will save her." he said, and he
set to work.
Bruising his knees, lacerating his
hands, the nails torn away, sweating
tears, weeping blood, tor over an
hour the count toiled at the mass of
stones with frenzy. Now, vainly
thrusting his bleeding hands into a
heap of rubbish. the powdered plaster
slipping through his fingers like
running water; again. moving heavy
blocks of stone, which fell back,
catching his hand in an iron grip.
The distant voice guided him con-
1t began to grow less dis
tinct, and suddenly it ceased alto
gether.
Then despair helped him to ac-
prodigies. He lifted blocks
OF stone. which he threw far from
him; he wrested away beams bristling
with nails. With blows Of his feet.