Kansas City daily journal., 1896-12-27

already seemed to be sunken in siumber
was reasonable after our many weary
miles that day. But I could not sleep, ex-
hausted as I was. That striking portrait
faced me and made me dread, and yet at
last nature had her way.
I awakened suddenly with the dread grip
ping my heart-awoke horribly in the pain
of nightmare, my eyes on the portrait of
the Sieur de Bellaire that the still flicker
ing candles showed. Or was it the portrait?
l stared. feared-ah, such horrid fear that
it was sickening me even now. The Sieur
de Bellaire was advancing out of his frame :.
was nearing me-and, suddenly leasing
forward, thrust his teeth into my throat
could feel a singing, biting pain, and then
I had strength to exert myself against the
thing. We strove mightily-I for my life,
the thing for desire. know of nothing
else that sends a chill like that of death
through the veins even now. for this was
a struggle of life and death. The thing
was ice that froze my heart, that wanted
my warm blood to thaw its own iciness of
death. And as we rolled and struggled I
heard no sound from PierSon. The cruel
thing with the bestial fangs had the bet
ter; and the desire for my own life was
greater than its desire for it. And 1 mas
tered it. Yes life mastered the thing of
death that fought for the life in me, and
when knew that had thrust it from me
my life went out of me.
And vet don Z KNOW. II u nSu DeSIl tiiaI
I died-that Pierson died-I should not
he telling this story awoke, with sense
of warmth, among tall grass and the life
giving sun on my face, and. raising my
self I looked out on a far reach OF moor,
the sun of the daybreak caught in the yell
low grass tops. No person-no living thing
was in yiew Yes, there was a house on
a near road, but where was the battie-
mented house of the night before? And
saw Pierson sleeping at my side, and then,
raising himself he turned on me a fearful
questioning stare. / noticed our wheels
lying at our sides, as if we had fallen from
them where we were. And then 1 had
pain at the throat, and, feeling there, knew
it had been torn and was still bleeding, and
Persons throat had some unaccountable
mark. .-,- --s~s
Shortly we began to question each other
in hoarse, unnatural voices, and his story
was as mine Yet we said nothing in sur
prise. We did not call each other liars.
For we knew And So too lame to. mount
even when we found the patch, we turned
toward the house we had seen-limping
with aching muscles.
The house proved to be the inn we had
| been seeking in the nights storm. There
we breakfasted, and then began to ask in
the taproom of the Sieur de Bellaire of the
house of the Bronze Fox. Perhaps they
did not understand, for as we questioned
they skunk away. But barefooted mendi-
cant, u brown cowled monk, who was lis
tening came forward, crossing himself and
surprising US with excellent English.
You passed a night in the house of the
Bronze Fox?"
'Yes. Who is this Sieur de Bellaire?"
There is none. He died in Henri Quatre's
reign ~
HE died? And the house?"
"There is only the cellar where the house
was.''
"And what of what we saw?"
'Who knows?" The monk paused
| strangely.
Have you ever heard that there may be
| dead who try to steal the life of the liv-
! ing?' he said, with strange, searchful eyes
! on me.
We paused looking at each other, and
then, too late-for the monk had gone
| tried to inquire of the men in the inn. They
| but stared at US stupidity, not understand
| ing us.
Pierson pulled me out into the sunshine,
| his face ashen, and motioned to our wheels.
1 understood and with that same impulse
of flight, too, mounted. The sun had dried
| the mud on the road, the summer morning
| drove the night out of our brains, and as
| we wheeled along. our pulses again beating
regularly, the events of the night grew
DINNER. They seemed but parts of night
| mare. 1t was as If we both had had a
| fall in the storm that had left us uncon-
| scious until dawn, that had put the same
scars on our throats5 that had stirred the
same fancies in our brains. Nor now can
| We be positive that it was else than a
| dream-an accident when in the tempest
| We wheeled out ofoar path, and the weari-
| ness of utter exhaustion wrought strange
delusions.-St.@ James Budget.