Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1897-07-10

In a tone Of contemptuous wonder what
brought such as you in that place."
In shame, and aware, now it was too
late that 1 had said the worst thing in
the world to commend myself to him,
stammered that had gone thither with a
friend.
"A woman he said quickly.
l allowed that it was.
The same that led you into this?"
But to that l made no answer; whereon
with sternness, he babe remember
where l stood and that in few minutes
1t would be too late to spelk.
You can trust me, fellow, I supDose?'
he said, with a fine scorn, that l shall
not give evidence against you. By being
candid, therefore, you may make things
better, but can hardly make them worse"
hereon 1t has been matter for a life s
rejoicing that l was not proof against his
kindness. but without more ado sobbing
over some parts of my tale. told him my
whole story from the first meeting 1 had
had with my temptreSS-So l may truly call
her-to the final moment when, the money
gone. and the ladder removed. l awoke to
find myself in prison. l told it, l have
reason to believe. with feeling, and in
words that carried conviction; the more as
though skilled in literary composition and
in writing secundum artem. 1 have little
imagination. Be that it may, when 1
had done and quavered off into a half
coherent and wholly piteous appeal for
mercy, he looked at me with heat of in
dignation in cheek and eye that strangely
altered him.
Good God!' he cried. what Jezebel"
And in words which I will not repeat, he
said what he thought of her.
True as the words were land knew that
after what 1 had told him nothing else
was true Of herr they forced a groan from
me.
Poor devil" he said at that And then,
again. Poor devil. For 1t is shame.
1t is black shame, my lad, he continued
warmly. and I would like to see madam
| at the cart tail: and that is where she will
be before she is done! / never heard of
such Jezebel. But for you" and on the
word he paused and looked at me-"you
did it. my friend. and 1 do not see your
way out of it,
"Then must 1 hang?" I cried
He did not answer.
MY lord, My lord!' I ursed-for 1 be-
gan to see whittier he was tending and l
could have shrieked in terror-'you can do
| anything"
~" he said.
Yes! if you would but speak to the
judge, my lord
He laughed, but without mirth "He
would whip you instead of hanging you,"
he said contemptuously.
ITO the king, them
you would thank me for nothing" he
| answered. and then with a kind of con-
temptuous suavity, My friend In your
Ware acaGemy-where nevertheless you
seem to have had your diversions-you Go
not know these things. But you may take
| it from me. that am more than suspected
of belonging to the party whose existence
Sir Baldwin denies-I mean the wings
and the suspicion alone Is enough to damn
any request or mine.
On that, after staring at him a moment.
l did a thing that surprised him. and had
he known me better. would have surprised
him more. For the courage to do it, and
to show myself in colors so unlike my own.
l had to thank, 1 believe, neither despair
nor fear, though both were present but
n mo hoo
him speak in a tone above me, and as it,
having heard my story, he was satisfied
with the curiosity of it. and would dismiss
the subject, and forsooth 1 might go 10
the gallows. i know now that in so speak
ing he had no unkindly intent; that on the
contrary. brought up short by the GER
tainty of my gull. and the impasse as to
helping me, in which he stood he took
that mode of depressing the emotion he
felt. But l did not understand this so with
| bitterness born of the Instrumentation
and in a voice that sounded harsh. and
any ones rather than my own, 1 burst
into torrent of reproaches, asking him
| II it was only for this he had seen me
alone, and to make a tale. ITO make a
tale 1 cried. land a jest? One that with
| the same face, with which you send me
out to hang and rot. aye. and with the
same smile, you'll tell, my lord, after sup
per, to Sir Baldwin and your like. Oh for
shame, my lord, for shame," l cried pas
sionateiy. and losing in my Indignation all
trouble yourself-for great heads fan as
| well as low ones in these days. and az
little pitied-if you have bowels of COM
| passion. my lord. and a mother"
He turned on me so swiftly at that that
my anger quailed before his. "Silence!'
| he cried fercely. How dare you. such az
| you, mention-but there fellow be silenti''
l caught the ring of pain as well as anger
! In his tone, and obeyed: though l could not
| discern what l had said to touch him so
| sorely. He, on his side, glowered at me a
| moment, and SO We stood while hope died
| within me, and / grew afraid of him again.
| and a shadow fell on the room as it had
| already fallen on his face. l waited for
| nothing now. but the word that should
! send me from his presence. and thought
! nothing so certain as that had-how did
| not understanding away what slender
| chance remained to me. 1t was with a
| start that when he broke the silence l was
\ aware of a new sound in his voice
| Listen, my lad he said, in a constrain-
| ed tone. You are right in one thing. II
l meant to do nothing for you 1 had no
! right to your confidence. l do not know
! what it was in your face induced me to
! see you. / wish had not-I wish to hea
| ven / had not. But since l have / must
| do what l can to save you; and there is
| only one way. Mind you, fellow" he con-
| tinued. in a sudden burst of anger, 81 do
| not like il! And / do II out of regard for
| myself. not for you"
| "Oh, my lordr l cried, ready to fall
| down and worship him.
Il sill r.