El Paso daily herald. (El Paso, Tex.) 1881-1901, 1900-06-13
THE LAST
OF HIS RACE.

Nv Dear Horace have Just heard OF the fail
of the mines and write to give you back your
freedom, for, of course, cannot hold you to your
now, poor boy.
shall do either you myself the injustice
to wreck lives by mad throw for love. You
will forgive me in the end and acknowledge that
l loved you wisely well.
1 trust your fallen fortunes may soon retrieve
themselves 1t is impossible for me to imagine
my prince ''pauper!" Forgive me and be-
Heve me, sincerely yours, MARION.
He tears the family scented. gold mon
ogrammed sheet across and across with
a muttered oath and then laughs. The
mirthless sound rings harshly through
the room. Then, with an impetuous
movement, he rises and, striking match,
lights every jet in the great chandelier,
until the light, reflected back and forth
in the many mirrors that line the walls,
fills the room with a golden blaze of
glory.
Seating himself at the desk he writes
hurriedly. The hands of the watch seem
to race the swift fngers-fasteri faster!
The stiffness of the room is broken only
by the ceaseless ticking of the timepiece
and the incessant scratch of the pen. The
breeze that stirs the window curtains
brings with it the heavy, enervating fra
GRANGE of jasmine bloom.
He pauSeS at last and, dropping the
pen, folds the written sheets and ar
ranges in neat packages the scattered
papers on the desk.
Rising, he goes to the open window
and stands gazing upon the quiet, moonlit
world.
His temples ache and throb as though
a sharp stiletto were piercing them
through. Bits of conversation, faces al
most forgotten, voices from the past.
crowd one upon the other in his brain.
trif1ing incidents standing out with vivid
distinctness in the turbulent maelstrom
of recollection.
As he turns back into the room his eye
scans the pictured faces Every detail
of costume. every lineament of feature,
seems to leap out from the canvases in
vivid distinctneSs.
Upon one at last his glance pauses
and rests-a dark, stern faced man. clad
in the gray uniform of a Confederate SOL
der, beneath which is suspended. by 4
broad. faded gray ribbon, a rusty sword.
Long he looks upon the face: then. 60
ing over to n long French mirror. he
gazes on the white. hard countenancc that
is reflected with moody eyes and white.
compressed lips.
A distant clock strikes the half hour
after IL. Going over TO the desk. he
takes up one of the pistols and examines
1t infinitely. From a drawer he takes a
silver flask and drains the amber colored
contents.
=
on the swiftly racing fingers
AT u o'clock" he mutters between
his set teeth.
The verse of an old poem comes to
him:
Crash, go the joy bells a-ringing
Drowning the sob and the passionate cry.
All, hearken awhile to their sweet, sad singing
Who love and suffer and laugh and diel
But let never a plying word be spoken
Or tear be shed. we would have it so.
We, whose hearts were broken, broken
Broken ever so long ago.
The faroff clock strikes u The little
brass hands meet. He raises the pistol
on level with his temple and takes de-
Hberate aim. But simultaneously with
the report Of the pistol there falls upon
the still night air the crash of steel strik-
ing stone and something is hurled against
the steady. tense fingers. sending the
weapon spinning against one of the long
mirrors. SCATTERING it into fragments.
And he stands with tingling fingers.
white and startled. gazing down upon his
fathers fallen sword.
STOPPING, ne raises it, while the swift
blood of shame mounts to his brow-hs
fathers sword, now dulled and corroded
by the tooth of time. When he bore it
upon the battlefield, it was bright and
shining as his good name; now the blade
is rusty and the name besmirched. With
white. working face the man gazes upon
the old weapon, once borne so CALAMITY
upon the battlefield.
Away in the distance he can still hear
the whippoorwill plaintively calling. and
the heavy fragrance of the jasmine seems
tangible.
He can see the young lieutenant clad
in the gray, gold trimmed uniform, stoop-
ing to kiss his little wondering child and
clasping his young wife in his arms in a
last passionate embrace.
And again another scene comes to him
of a day when they brought the young
soldier home to his weeping wife, the
gray uniform torn and tattered. the cause
for which he fought so bravely lost and
the proud face cold in death, to lay him
down under the grass and the daisies in
the little family burying ground, so soon
to be followed by his broken hearted
young widow.
And the vision fades, leaving him
trembling, the mans head falls upon his |
breast, and cry goes up to heaven:
Father, l have sinnedr'
Not far from Siboney there is a solitary
soldiers grave, on which the torrid sun
beats ruthlessly. On the plain wooden
slab that marks it is the name Horace |
Byrd Faxon, written by surviving COM
rade, and beneath it the simple inscrip-
ton:
"Here lies the last of a noble race, who |
died a noble death fighting for the liberty |
Of his fellow men. One noble deed blots |
out many Ill ones in the eyes Of the an |
gels of d."-Chicago News |