Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1898-07-02

dinner. He accepted an invitation ana SAT
down on the altar steps with his bit of
bread and morsel of dry beef
The wavering flare from the campfire fiji
tered through the stained glass; the somber
depths of the church were tinged with vio-
let and crimson-dusky clustered columns
glitteIed purple the crucifx was bathed in
shadow. save where single trembling
beam of light. red as blood. lay like
open wound across the pierced side of our
dying Lord
He looked up into the vaulted roof stone
ribbed. black with the shadows of CEN
turtles. He heard the roar of the campires
the crackie of damp logs, the scrape and
stamp and stir of sleepy horses. the deep
breathing OF sleeping men. He rose noise
lessly and crept out into the street. The
fog hung thick on the heavy flying but
tresses. on fieche and gargoyls. and on the
huted robes OF saints and martyrs. peering
down from their inches into the fire glow
where. swathed in their cloaks lay the
martyrs 10 be, not saints. but men, sick,
freezing, starving things, called the l2Sth
of the line.
They lay there like Jumps on The church
steps. in doorways-they nestled in the gut
ter. they huddled against doorposts. these
clods of breathing clay-sodden and rag
ged and filthy, sinful. lustful and human,
sleeping their brief sleep till the white
dawn reused and summoned them home
forever
Faint cries from the sentries. fainter re-
sponses. the crackle and snap of logs afire,
and the tall shadows wavering, these were
all that he and heard. The carved
stone gargoyies dripped water from every
fantastic snout, the reflected flames played
over pilla- and column, saint and martyr,
cross and crown
All day he had driven thoughts of Hide
from him, but now, at midnight. when the
lamp of life burns lowest and the eyes
no
thought of her, and lying down in the
street beside the fire he questioned his
soul. At night, too. the soul. stirring in the
bcdy-perhaps at the nearness of God
av akenS conscience
He had never before thought seriously of
death. It's arrival to himself he had never
pictured in concrete form In the abstract
he had often riSked 1t, never fearing 1t, be-
cause mentally too inert. too lazy, to apply
such a contingency to his own familiar
body. Now. for the first time in his life. he
closed his eyes and saw himself. just as he
lay. but STILL wet, muddy and horribly
silent He opened his eyes and looked
soberly al the fire. After little he
closed his eyes again. and again he saw
himself lying he lay, wet. muddy. mo-
ticnless as only the dead can lie. He had
known fear. but never before the dull fore
boding that now crept into his heart To
open his eyes and see the fire was to live;
70 shut his eyes was to reflect the image
of death upon his closed lids. At first he
disdained to shake it Off-this mental
shadow that passed across his senses.
What if it were true? He had lived. 1t
was the old selfishness stifirg the sense of
res ponsibility-his responsii ility to the
world. to himself. to Hide. To Hide?
He sat up in mis- blanket and stared into
the fire. Slowly the comprehension of his
responsibility came to HIM, his duty, all
that was due TO her from him, all that he
owed her. all that she should claim, one
day claim in life or in the life to come. Die?
He couldn't die-yet. There something
to do first, Who spoke of death? There
too much TO do. there were matters of
honor to arrange first; there was debt to
pay that neither death nor he'll nor hope
of paradise could cancel Was death about
to prevent him from paying that debt?
He was walking now, moving aimlessly
to ard fro under the porch of the church.
A sentry huddled against a column, re-
garded him alphabetically he passed out
into the street. And always his thoughts
IF / have This debt to pay, what am 1
doing here? What right have / to risk
death until it is paid? And if 1 die-if 1
die
His thoughts carried him no further.
Hides pale face rose before him. He read
terrible accusation in her eyes. And he
repeated aloud. again and again. Il must
go back For he understood now that his
life was no longer his own to risk-that it
belonged to Hide Nor would he ever
again have the right to imperil his life I'M
til they had risen together from their knees
before the altar as man and wife. He look
ed out into the mist, rudy with the camp
fire glow Would morning ever come? Why
should he wait for morning? AT the
thought he caught up his pouch and blank
et rolled. strapped and adjusted them and
stole out into the darkness.
Almost at once he heard somebody fol-
lowing him, but at FIRST he scarcely noticed
1t. Down The main street he passed over
the slippery cobblestones. eyes fixed on
distant fire that marked the last bivouac
in the village before the street ends at the
ruined bridge across the Moilette. 1t was
as he approached this camp fire that he
realized somebody had been following him.
He paused a moment in the circle Of fire.
light and turned around. Nothing stirred
in the darkness beyond. He waited then
started on again, crossing the Lille high
Way to the line of bushes that marked the
waters edge. No sentinel challenged him:
he waded the ford below the wrecked stone
bridge, climbed the bank opposite and
started across a wet meadow. beyond which
py the muddy road 10 Paris. Half way
through the meadow he halted again to
listen. The unseen person was wadng the
ford-he could hear him in the water; now
he was climbing the bank; the bushes
cracked; foctstep fell on the gravel
Hardwood waited. peering through the
gloom. He could see nothing; the silence
was absolute. Whoever was following him
had stopped out there somewhere in the
darkness.
little unnerved. Hardwood turned again
and fastened through the meadow to the
highway When he reached the road he
cOuld scarcely see 1t, but he felt the mud
and grave beneath his feet and started on
In a moment he heard the footsteps of his
follower. not behind now, but in front-be-
tween him and Paris. He stopped abrupt
~ and drew his revolver. A minute passed
IN utter silence Then there came a soft
football close in front. whining voice:
Monsieur
W no are your said Hardwood sharply
Inc Mouse. monsieur"
In his establishment the revolver almost
fell from Harewoods hand What the
devil are you doing here?' he demanded.
and why the devil are you sneaking about
like this? Answer. you fool. 1 nearly shot
you just now"
The Mouse crept UP to Hardwood as a
sulky. vicious cur comes to his punishment.
Answer, repeated Hardwood, why are
you following me?"
Il wasn't sure 1t was you." muttered the
Mouse ~r-
What? Why did you come to LIE Bour-
get?'
Il don't know. said the Mouse suIlenly
Harewoods annazement turned to impa-
tience.
You'd better answer me-" he said: you
certainly didn't come here for love of my
company" -
But that was exactly the reason why the
mouse had coE.e. The instinct of saw
tge cur Tor Its master, the strange attrac-
ton that decency and courage have for