Omaha daily bee., 1898-07-03
CHAPTER discontinued.

CHAPTER XN.-Continucd.
Inside the church the officers were at din
ner. He accepted an invitation and sat down
on the altar steps with his bit Of bread and
morsol Of dry beef.
The wavering fare from the campfire FL
tered through the stained glass; the somber
depths OF the church were tinged with violet
and crimson-dusky clustered columns gilt
tered purple; the cruciix was bathed in
shadow. save where a single trembling beam
of light, red as blood. lay like an open
wound across the pierced side OF our dying
Lord.
lie looked up into the vaulted roof. stone
ribbed, black with the shadows OF centuries.
He heard the rear of the campfres, the
cracklo of damp logs. the scrape and stamp
and stir OF sleepy horses, the deep breathing
OF sleeping men. lie rose noiselessly and
crept out into the street. The fog hung
thick on the heavy, flying buttresses, on
fleche and gargoyle, and on the futed robes
of saints and martyrs, peerlng down from
their inches into the fire glow, where.
swathed in their cloaks, lay the martyrs
TO be, not saints, but men, sick, freezing,
starving things, called the 12Sth 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-soddcn and ragged
and filthy, sinful, lustful, and human, sleep
ing 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 afre.
and the tall shadows wavering, these were
all that he saw and heard. The carved
stone gargoyles dripped water from every
fantastic snout, the reflected flames played
over pillar 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 close,
and death seems very near-he thought OF
her, and lying down in the street beside the
fire, he questioned his soul. AT night, too,
the soul. stirring in the body-perhaps at the
nearness of God-awakens conscience.
He had never before thought seriously OF
death. Its arrival to himself he had never
pictured in concrete form. In the abstract
he had often rlsked 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 a
the fire. After n little he closed his eye:
again, and again he saw himself lying as
he lay. wet, muddy. motionless, as only
the dead can lie. He had known fear
but never before the dull forebodings tina
now crept into his heart. To open hi!
eyes and see the fire was to live; t.
shut his eyes was to reflect the image o
death upon his closed lids. At first he dis.
dained to shake 1t off-this mental shadow
that passed across his senses. What i
it were true? He had lived. 1t was tn,
old selfshness sitting the sense of respon
sibility-his responsibility to the world, t,
himself. to Hide. To Hide?
He sat up in his blanket and stared int,
the fire. Slowly the comprehensive of hi
responsibility came to him, his duty, and al
that was due to her from him, all that h
owed her, all that she should claim, on
day, claim in life or in the life to come
Die! He couldn't die-yet. There wa
something to do first! Who spoke of death
There was too much to do, there were mat
tiers of honor to arrange first, there wa
a debt to pay that neither death nor hel
nor hope of paradise could cancel. Wa
death about to prevent him from payin
that debt?
He was walking. now, moving aimlessl
to and fro under the porch of the church
A sentry, huddled against a column, re
garded him alphabetically as he passed on
into the street. And always his thought
ran on:
III l have this debt to pay, what am
doing here? What right have l to rs
death until 1t is paid? And If l def
die"
His thoughts carried him no furthe,
Hides pale face rose before him. He rca
terrible accusations in her eyes. And h
repeated aloud, again and again, 81 mus
go back" For he understood now tha
his life was no longer his own to risk
that 1t belonged to Hide. Nor would h
ever again have the right to imperil his lii
until they had risen together from the
knees, before the altar, as man and wifi
He looked out into the mist, rudy wit
the campfire glow. Would morning eve
come? Why should he wait for the morr
ing? At the thought he caught up h
pouch aud blanket, rolled, strapped and az
justed them, and stole out into the darl
ness.
Almost at once he heard somebody 70
lowing him, but at first he scarcely notice
1t. Down the main street he passed, ov,
the slippery cobblestones, eyes fixed on
distant fire that marked the last bivout
in the village before the street ends at Il
ruined bridge across the Mollette. 1t WI
as approached this campfire that he realize
somebody had been following him. 1
paused n moment in the circle Of the fir,
light and turned around. Nothing stir,
in the darkness beyond. He waited, the
started on again. crossing the Lille highwi
10 the line of bushes that marked the water
edge. No sentinel challenged him.; he wad,
the ford below the wrecked stone bridg
climbed the bank opposite and start,
across q wet meadow, beyond which lay II
muddy road to Paris. Half way throul
the meadow he halted again to listen. TT
unseen person was wading the ford
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