The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1898-11-23

must do 1t. A hundred men threatened
Lgniere the drunkard, the balladist,
the man whose verse had stung the
great De Guiohe, the man whom Oyrano
de Bergerao named friend.
but, prithee, why embroil yourself
for him?" demanded Le Bret when Cy-
rano, forgetful Of the roseate Roxane,
had gripped his sword to use upon the
hundred cutthroat hirelings of De
Guiche. Hes but wine cask at the
best"
''He is my friend, and for this reason
is he dear to me- His love was a lady
Of devout ways-and Ligniere, whom
water poisons. saw her white fingers
touch font of holy water-little lilies
rufaing clear pond. Swiftly he seized
the stoup and drained to the last drop
the water her finger tips had sanctified.
Was 1t not pretty thing? Shall not
be proud to name him friend? And
shall not lead the charge upon those
who seek to do him harm? Bear me no
aid, pray you, gentlemen, when fall
fall upon them. Come you, if you
will. but watchers be, not actors. Ahead
Of you at 30 PAGES I, all alone, ehall
dare them. Come onr'
They followed him to see the sport
those gay Parisians, to whom all things
were but spectacle. And the sight
they witnessed drove them mad with
delight. Cyrano bore down upon the
thugs like an avalanche Iefore his fury
they fed away. Those who would have
withstood him fell beneath his sword
There was no resisting him. The joy of
battle against fearful odds was upon
him. The message from Roxane sang
itself in his heart. No man could hold
his own against the strong son Of Gas
cony.
How he escaped the crowd that pressed
upon him, eager to touch his hand,
eager to felicitate him, it Is hard telling
But somehow he managed it. When the
last flying form of his foes had sped
through the nebulous moonlight, before
the mobiles and the officers who had wit
messed the affair could seize Cyrano to
bear him to his lodgings in triumph, he
was gone. Hurryine to his house, they
did not find him.
He walked deserted streets and quays
while the moon Travelled mistily down
the sky and the sun rose up through a
rudy smoke in the east. A thousand
times he addressed Roxane in fancy.
The blood that rushed swiftly through
his veins after the fight throbbed to her
name now that battle was done. In
lines that wove themselves together like
the tendrils Of vine he addressed her.
The Tilt Of birds songs, the sobbing Of
the sea. colors like gems perfumes as
Of flowers, all mingled in his senses as
he framed the speech in which he would
address her. Then, silhouetted ON a
gray wall. he would catch sight Of his
reflection. Grotesque, ungainly, mon
strUus, his nose was cut in the black
shadow. His words took wing and his
heart sank at the memory of that fatal
nose.
Long before st. Roch's worshipers
had left the chapel, he wac at the pastry
cooks. He paced up and down. His
eyes took in the FURNISHED brightness of
the copper pans, the suffering flames
where from fowl revolving on spit q
drop Of grease would fall. He looked
upon the plates high heaped with tarts
and cakes. He saw staggering mus
keteer pay compliments to Lise, the
buxom wife of Ragueneau. He saw
Ragueneau, oonnoisseur of cakes and
couplets, composer of tarts and triolets,
adept at poetry and at pies, bustling
about his shop, blind to the musketeer,
keenly alive to the hungry poets whom
he fed-at so many verses meal.