The Telegraph-courier. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1888-1946, 1895-05-16

&4MH autumn wind, and
~ the sun is darling
long, reddish rays
through the bare
boughs above; the sky is blue
as blue can be; and from
she woods rises a pungent, aromatic
odor. Jean Pegolan, sentient, through
his tough hide, of some small part OF
all this poetry, this serenity of nature
whips up the gray with Will and turns
her head hOmeward.
1t is quite true, to be sure, that the
Prussians are marching on Paris, that
here they have sacked a village, there
burned a farm to the ground, and
further on, shot some poor, unoffensive
creature dead. But, I ask you, what diff
ference can that possibly make to Jean
Pegolan? Neither his house, nor his cat
tie, nor his crops, have suffered in the
least from invasion. He saw some Of
the enemy at the neighboring town,
where he had just been to sell some of
the produce of his farm, and, dear me,
he has not found that they are such
monsters One must admit that
they are men like any others.
When he has passed the Green-Cross
and sees the village before him, with
its church steeple of gray slate and the
gilt weather vane shining in the sunset,
our honest farmer has a vision of the
steaming dish of soup which awaits him
on the table at home, that brings the
water to his mouth.
Eli! Git up!'
But instead of getting up" the gray
comes to sudden standstill.
a Prussian estafette, in passing has
seized her bride and sharply turns her
out of the way Then, as Pegolan is too
slow in making room, he raises his whip
and slashes it across the farmers face,
from ear to ear.
Certainly Jean Pegolan has always
expressed the greatest respect for the
cenqueror, but this time, rage gets the
Better of him. He rises to his feet,
seizes one of the benches of the cart
and the Prussian rolls off his horse the
next moment with a broken skull.
The shadows are growing deeper
across the road, the woods are very
still, the moon is creeping up the
horizon, half hidden behind a transpar-
ent veil of clouds.
PegoIan, who is now trembling in ev-
cry limb, looks furtively around him.
No one has seen the deed. His Prus-
sian lies there in the ditch, kicking con-
wuIsfvely, face downward. AS for him,
he will assuredly tell no tales!
Come, git up! HI
And the gray, who scents her stable
from afar, starts off at a gallop.
They have all been pushed and locked
into the church like a flock of sheep.
There they are, sitting in groups in
the nave, some very pale, others very
red, all silent, their threats contracted
by fright A crude white light falls
from the windows of unstained glass
and throws large pale squares on the
blue peasants frocks or illumines pitt
Iessly some face on which abject fear
may be read in the drawn mouth and
Dinched nostrfls.
Faint heavy odors of autumnal foliage
come from the neighboring cemetery
and one hears the chirping of the spar
rows disputing among themselves
amidst the gravestones.
The night before, a Prussian patrol
had found near the Green-Cross, the
body of a murdered hussard. It is nee
essary to make an example. And so,
since dawn, a battalion of chasseurs
nave invaded the village, and, by order
of the commanding officer, have i'm
prisoned within the church walls every
able-bodied man in the community.
The morning-until the stroke Of noon
has been given them to point out the
guilty one, or to make a personal con-
1ession; that hour passed, one of the
men will be picked out at random, and
the village turned down.
And it is now IL 80 o'clock.
oh! IF they only knew the murderer
the assassin-the bandit-who has
brought all this upon them, while they
were negotiating along TRANQUILITY in the
midst Of the ruins of their country; how
gladly and quickly would they, good
people denounce him! If necessary they
would wreak vengeance upon him with
their own hands. But they do not know
him; and meantime, the minutes hurry
on. and none dare take the initiative,
none assume the responsibility of sing
ling out the criminal
He who could solve their perplexities,
who might cry: II am the murderer, the
assassin, the bandit!'-he, Jean Pogo
ian. is very careful not to breathe a
word
He sits in the shadow of the confess
sional, with his sealskin cap drawn over
his eyes and his heart beating wildly
within him, and thinks Of his wife, who
Is so dainty and so kissable; of his cows
who are Illuminating at their stalls; OF
his hay, all we'll slowed away in his
lofts, and he tells himself that to die
would be to leave that to all eternity
that one only dies once, that he would
be very much of a fool to give himself
up to justice, and that after all, he
never killed the Prussian Intentionally
The reasonings suffice to quiet his con-
science. If the choice happens to fall
on an innocent maxwell, my faith, il
cannot be helped. Every one is surely
Bound to look after himself in this base
world.
Harkl the clock, quarter to twelve
Only a quarter of an hour left.
The last stroke dies away in slow
vibrations and silence hangs again un
der the high vaulted ceiling, like some
invisible presence. The heavy rhythmic
xread of troops approaching, then stop
ping, sounds from without. A hoarst
cry of command comes next, multitude