The Madison daily leader. [volume] (Madison, S.D.) 1890-current, 1895-04-26
and she knew that she would die Of grief
% Da~<oH f~o,, k,ur -

more In Provence, destroying the cities
and fields and carrying the people into
slavery. Then the lord of Theoule,
without daring to turn his head. re-
mounted his charger, and in silence and
tears the lovers parted.
Long time. unweariedly, without vain
lamentations, straining her poor eyes
until they grew dim with watching from
dawn till twilight the always empty
road and changeless horizon, Bathilde
awaited the return Of her hearts lord.
Days and weeks went by, yet no It'd.
tDgs came. Seated at the window from
which she had first seen him in the
shadows Of the summer evening, she
wept in silence, and sc many and bitter
were her tears that twin burrows showed
themselves in her cheeks. She slept no
more. but wandered through the vast
halls and the forest like an uneasy
spirit. She became, little by little. so
thin and pale that her garments hung
futtering upon her. She felt neither
hunger nor thirst, and her brain held
no other thought than that he loved her
no more or was dead, and her heart grew
lifeless under this double wound.
She ordered thrown into the sea all
her mirrors Of silver and of steel. The
reflection Of her face frightened her like
that Of a specter. She started at the
least noise and grew faint with appre-
hension whenever q band Of horsemen
showed itself at the turning Of the high.
way. In person she questioned every
pilgrim and traveller and beggar that
came to the castle gate. Kneeling upon
the hard, cold flagstones of the church,
she prayed to God and the Virgin and
the saints with ardent fervor for the re-
turn Of him she loved. She emptied her
Golfers in aims and pious donations to
the abbeys and the monks. She arraved
the images Of the Virgin in her robe
silk and brocade, giving with such
verish haste that she was soon reduced
clothe herself in coarse cloth and went
as miserably clad as q beggar.
One day, after she had given until
she had nothing more left to bestow-
neither ring nor golden belt nor sack of
coins-a monk. escaped by q miracle
from the Moors, told her that the lord
Of the isles, surprised in an ambuscade,
as was of old the valiant Roland at
Roncesvalles, alone against q hundred
and weakened by ten wounds, had fallen
into the hands Of his eternal enemies,
and that they demanded for his ransom
a thousand golden pieces and ten boxes
Of precious stones.
What could she do? How could she
gather SO much gold and jewels? He
lived, he pinned for her. He felt but the
one passion every hour, and she could
not succor him. She could not find such
a sum. After rejecting two days and
nights, fasting alone like one who walks
in sleep, Bathilde descended to the city.
1t was Palm Sunday. The bells ran
full peal. The sun shone from q cloud
less sky upon the calm, blue sea. The
pennons adjoining the masts of ships
duttered joyously in the gentle breeze.
In the city's streets and squares and
along the harbor wall the fresh, bitter
odor Of broken olive and laurel branches
and the scent of sweet marjoram foated
upon the soft, warm air of the morning.
Maidens were singing. The common
people were in gala dress. But as the
crowds came to the great open porch of
the cathedral all-soldiers and priests,
commoners and mobiles alike-gathered
about a single object.
Kneeling among the wretched men-
d~icants, the crippled, the insane and the
blind, into whose eyes no longer entered
the blessed daylight, was o woman, pale
as one who has been stricken dead with
shame and horror. She held out her
hands imploring aims in a voice broken
with sobs, begging the of Foul
ques the Fair.
All knew the supplicant. They el-
bowed each other to catch q glimpse Of
the naughty Countess Bathilde, who
had been SO hard and merciless, who
had abused them as If they had been
beasts, who had ruled over them as the |
proud towers of her castle seemed to
over the land and sea.
Growing bold, believing her mad,
they ~assailed her with insults and rail
ing. They derided her as they threw in
her face pieces Of copper and bits Of flint
and burst into laughter at her figure
bent in anguish, and her fevered, star
ing eyes, where the wells Of tears had
run dry.
But suddenly her features, her hair. |
her poor garments shone with a deifed
splendor, and there was a sound in the
sky above her like the beat of mighty
wings. The copper coins turned to
broad pieces of shining gold, and the
fints became flaming sapphires, rubies
and amethysts. About her head blazed
an aureole Of dazzling splendor.
Then all the people cried ont in won
der, and as she rose followed. singing
and clarifying her as q saint. She had
become more ~radiantly beautiful than
when, with the lovelight in her eyes,
she had first greeted him whom she
adored, and with a sweet, grave gesture
OF adieu she passed from their sight.
bearing in her tattered beggar's robe
the ransom of Foulques the Fair.
1t was thus that the Countess Bathilde
saved from shame and death the lord Of
the isles. From the French For Short