Reporter and farmer. [volume] (Webster, Day County, Dakota [S.D.]) 188?-1946, 1895-11-07

clouds-with all the universe, as 1t
were, in a broken and ~shapeless chaos
about me; even so l went forth to
meet my fate . -. and left her!
Unrecognized, ~untracked, l departed
from Naples. Wrapped in my cloak,
and stretched in a sort Of heavy stu
por on the deck of the Rondinella, my
appearance apparently excited no u S
picion in the mind of the skipper, old
Antonio Bardi, with whom my friend
Andrea had made terms for my voy-
age, little aware of the real identity
or the passenger he recommended.
The morning vas radiantly beauti-
full; the sparkling waves rose high on
tipNtoe to kiss the still boisterous wind,
spring-tide glory over the world. With
the burden of my agony upon me;
with the utter exhaustion Of my over
wrought nerves. / beheld all things in
a feveriSh dream; the laughing light,
the azure ripple of waters, the reced-
ing line Of my native shores; every
thing was blurred, indistinct and un-
real to me, though my soul. Argus
eyed, necessarily peered down, down
into those darksome depths where she
lay, silent forever. For now | knew
she was dead. Fate had killed her
not /. All u~nrepentant as she was,
triumphing in her treachery 10 the last,
even in her madness, / would have
saved her, though she strove to muir
der me.
Yet it was well the stone had fallen
who knows! . If she had
lived! . | stroye not to think of
her, and drawing the key of the vault
from my pocket, l let it drop with a
sullen splash into the waves. All was
over-no n pursued me-no n in
guired whittier l went. l arrived at
Ciyita Veecbio unquestioned; from
thence l Travelled to Leghorn, where l
embarked on board a merchant trading
vessel bound for South America. Thus
/ lost myself to the world: thus / be-
came. at it We're, buried alive for the
second time. / am safely sepulchred
in these wild woods, n l seek no es-
cape.
Wearing the guise of a rough settler,
n who works in common with 9TH
ers, hewing down tough parasites and
poisonous undergrowths in order to
affect n clearing through these path
less SolitudeS, none can trace in the
strong, stern man, with the care worn
face and white hair, my resemblance
to the once popular and wealthy
Count Olivia, whose disappearance, 30
strange and sudden, was for q time
the talk of Italy. For, on n occa-
sion, when visiting the nearest town,
l saw an article in a ne lspaper. head
ed. Mysterious Occurrence in Ma
pies" and read every word of it with
q sensation of dull amusement.
From it | learned that the Count
Olivia was advertised for. His abb
rupt departure, together with that Of
his newly married wife, formerly Con-
tessa Romani, on the very night Of
their wedding, had created the ut
most excitement in the city. The land
lord of the hotel where he stayed was
prosecuting inQuiries-So was, the
counts former valet, one VincenZo
Flamma. ANY information would be
gratefully received by the police au-
thOrities. If within twelve months no
were obtained the immense prop
critics of the Romani family. in de-
farlt of existing kindred, would he
handed over to the crown
There was much more to the same
effect, and l read 1t with the utmost
Indifference. Why do they not search
the Romani vault? . | thought
gloomily; they would find some au-
thentic information there! But / know
the Neapolitans well; they are timor-
u and superstititi0us; they would as
soon hug a pestilence as explore q
charnel house. One thing gladdened
me; it was the projected disposal OF
my fortune. The crown, the kingdom
of Italy, was surely as noble an heir
as a man could have. / returned to
my woodland but with a strange peace
on my soul.
AS / told you at first, I am n dead
man; the world, with it's busy life and
aims, has naught to do with me. The
tall trees, the birds. the whispering
grasses are my friends and my COM
panions; they, and they only, are some
times the silent witnesses of the tor
turing fits Of agony that every now
and then overwhelm me with bitter
ness. For l suffer always. This is
natural. Revenge is sweet,-but who
shall paint the horrors OF memory?
My vengeance now recoils upon my
w head. | do not complain of this;
1t is the law of compensation; it is
just. L blame no one, save her. the
woman who wrought my wrong. Dead
as she is / do not forgive her; | have
tried to, but I cannot! Do men ever
truly forgive the women who ruin
their lives? l doubt it. AS for me. |
feel that the end is not yet that
when my soul is released from its
earthly prison, / shall be doomed in
some drear dim way to pursue her
"treacherous fitting spirit over the
black chasms of a hell darker than
Dante's-she in the likeness of a wan
dering flannel as her haunting snau-
ow-she. flying before me in coward
fear-l, hasting after her In relentless
~Wrath-and this forever and ever,
But | ask no pity; | need none /
punished the guilty, and in doing so
suffered more than they; that is as il
must always De. | have no regret and
no remorse: only one thin. troubles
me-one little thing-a mere foolish
fancy! 1t comes upon me in the night.
when the la%rge-faced moon looks at
ME from heaven. For the moon Is
grand in this climate: she is like a
golden-robed empress of all worlds as
n sweeps in lustrous magnificenca
through the dense violet skies. | shut
out her radiance as much as | can: I
close the blind at the narrow window
of my solitary forest cabin; and vet do