The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-04-21


no effort. driving
from place to place az fast as two
sturdy Hungarian horses could take
him, hurrying from one office to an
other. and again and again searching
endless pages and columns which
seemed full of all the anne OF earth,
bat in which he never found the one
Of all others which he longed to read.
The Wanderer stood in deep thought
under the shadow Of the ancient
Powder Tower. Haste had no further
object now, since he had made every
inquiry within his power, and it was
q relief to feel the pavement beneath
his feet, and to breathe the misty,
frozen air after having been SO long
in the closeness Of his carriage. He
hesitated as to what he should do. I'M
willing to return to Unorna and &C
knowledge himself vanquished. yet
finding it hard to resist his desire to
try every means. no matter how little
rea ,onable, how evidently useless,
how puerile and revolving to his
sounder sense. The street behind
led toward Unorna's house. Had he
found himself in d more remote quar-
ter he might have come to another
and wiser conclusion. Being SO near
to the house of which he was thinking
he yielded to the temptation. He left
the street almost immediately, passing
under a low, arched way that opened
on the rigbt-hand side, and a moment
later he was within the walls of the
Teyn Kirche.
The vast building was less gloomy
than it had been in the morning. 1t
was not yet the hour of vespers. The
funeral torches had been extinguished.
as we'll as most of the lights upon the
high altar; there were not a dozen
persons in the church. The Wan
and sat down in the corner of the
blackened pew. His hands trembled
a little as he clasped them upon his
knees and his head sank slowly
toward his breast.
He thought Of all that might have
been if he had risked everything that
morning. He could have used his
strength to force a way for himself
through the press, he could have
thrust the multitude to the right and
left, and he could have reached her
side. Perhaps he had been weak. in
dolent. timid, and he accused himself
of his own failure. But then, again,
he seemed to see about him the closely
packed crowd. the sea of faces, the
thick. black mass of humanity. and
he knew the tremendous power that
lay in the inert, passive resistance Of
a vast gathering such as had been
present. Had it been anywhere else,
in a street, in a theatre, anywhere ex-
cept in a church, all would have been
we'll.
He was aware that some one was
standing very near to him. He looked
up and saw a very short, gray-headed
man engaged in o minute examination
of the dark red marble face on the
astronomers tomb. The mans bald
head, encircled at the base by a fringe
OF short, gray hair. was half buried
between his high, broad shoulders, in
an immense collar of fur, but the
shape of the skull was so singular as
to distinguish its possessor, when hat
less, from all other men. No n who
knew the man could mistake his head,
when ever the least portion of it
could be seen. The wanderer recog-
! nized him at once.
As though he were conscious of be
ing watched, the little mar turned
sharply.
The %wanderer rose to his feet.
"Keyork Arabian !" he exclaimed,
extending his hand.
Still wanderingP" asked the little
man, with a slightly sarcastic intona-
ton. He spoke in a deep, caressilg
bass, not loud. but rich in quality.
You must have wandered, too,
since we last met, replied the taller
man."
Il never wander" said Keyork.
"When a man knows what he wants,
knows where it is to be found, and
goes thither to take it, he is not wan
dering. Moreover, l have no thought
of removing myself or my goods from
Prague. live here. It is a city for
old men. 1t is saturnine."
lis thai an advantageP" inquired
the Wanderer.
TO my mind. wouIo say to my
son, if / had one-my thanks to a
blind but intelligent destiny for pre-
serving me from such a calamity
would say to him: Spend thy youth
among the flowers in the land where
they are brightest and sweetest; pass
thy manhood in all lands where man
strives with man, thought for thought,
blow for blow; choose for thine old
age that spot in which, all things be-
ing old, thou mayest for the longest
time consider thyself young in com
parison with thy surroundings.
Moreover, the imperishable can pre-
serve the perishable."
at was not your habit to talk of
death when we were together"
Il have found it interesting of late
years. The subject is connected with
one of my inventions. Did you ever
embalm a body? No? I could tell
you something singular about the