The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1901-03-26


on its high walls is spread in black and
white the story of Paul and Virginia.
Rugged rocks and tossing seas, sylvan
and outrageous woods, depict the
scenes of this lovers tragedy, while the
hero and heroine wander arm in arm,
often pausing for fond embrace,
through devious paths to their sad
doom.
In the midst of this splendor and the
rich furnishings brought over seas in
Spanish galleons, lived the priceless Or
nament of the house of Don Juan Man
! uel, his young and beautiful wife. Each
day he said to himself, "She is more
beautiful, more charming, more true,
and / am unspeakably blessed in her
love-" But one day the thought came
to him that he was growing old. For
long time the devotion of his lovely wife
had deceived him into the belief that
years did not matter. But at last he
was forced to realize that the care OF
his great estates needed younger head.
He would send to Spain for his nephew
and thus give himself more time for do
nestle felicity. Happy thought! The
nephew came, met his youthful and
beautiful aunt, devoted himself to col
Letting his uncle's tithes, and staid.
If the world lacks proverb it is one
applicable to the blindness of the old
and doting husband and the adroitness
of his young and beautiful wife. But
in time even Don Juan Manuel became
suspicious, and from suspicion to jeal-
ousy the step is but short one. Spend
ing his evenings by the side Of his wife,
Don Juan Manuel suddenly began to
absent himself night after night. At
first the young wife wondered and was
alarmed at she knew not what, but
soon she begged her husband to remain
with her, because it was reported that
every night murder was committed in
the Gale de Don Juan Manuel. Every
night the Waterman would see tall
figure, wrapped in the long, black,
Spanish cloak, pacing back and forth
the limit of the short street Whose
this black figure was no Waterman
could tell-or would When it appear
ed, the street became suddenly deserted,
and slowly and solemnly the tall man
with bent head, marched up and down
to the lonesome echo Of his tread
Sometimes for hours no other form was
visible throughout the length of tho
Gale, but younger and keener eyes
might have seen, stealing out on The
upper balcony of the house OF Don Juan
Manuel, the young wife whom he had
locked in her chamber Beneath the
shadow of the great stone water pipes
she would crouch and wait and watch.
At last, a stranger or an overbold
citizen of the street. not believing the
stories of nightly murder, would turn
his steps into that lone place. Directly
he would be met or overtaken by the
slow pacing figure in the long black
cloak stranger, it would say, "canst
thou tell me the hour of the night?
The stranger, unsuspecting danger or
nimid in the commanding presence,
would open his cloak and take out his
repeater, when-deathl Straight to his
heart pierced the double edged dagger
carried by the tall, black figure that
paced the Gale de Don Juan Manuel.
Fortunate is the man who knows the
as quickly as it had gone home to the
life fount as quickly was the dagger
withdrawn, wiped upon the cloak Of
the fallen man, sheathed in its morocco
case and replaced in the folds Of it's
owners cloak. Suddenly the pacing fig
ure would disappear, muttering to him
self, "He is not the man, or Another
time"
In the morning the dead would be
found and identified, but the murderer
was never apprehended. The next night
the same scene would be re-enacted.
The black draped figure would reappear,
the Waterman would stink away, the
street would become deserted by all but
the mysterious parsonage who was ques-
toned by none. Then the unwary vic
tim would march down the street to
his doom.
"Stranger, what is the hour Of the
night? Hol So? Thrice fortunate is the
man who can SO accurately tell the hour
of his death I"
And the jewel in the hilt of the dag
ger shone an instant while it was held
from its point, and SO it went on, until
at last, one night, when the deadly blow
had been struck and the body of the
man who had foretold the hour Of his
own death was about to fall to the
ground, there was an unearthly shrek,
prolonged into wall as of lost soul.
The black cloaked figure paused and
let go the dagger, leaving it buried in
the heart of the man before him. The
awful cry came from above and sound
ed like the voice Of an avenging angel,
but in another instant Don Juan Man
uel had seen and known his wife as she
leaned swooning over the railing of the
balcony.
He turned again quickly to the man
who now lay at his feet Hurriedly
pushing back the cape that had fallen
partly over the face, he exclaimed: ut
is he 1t is help and strobe away, leav
Ing the weapon that had stilled so many
lives buried in the heart of his nephew.
At last old Don Juan Manuel had
found the victim he so long had sought.
He had no further use for the jeweled
dagger. For a short time he disappeared
from the street at night, but one day
funeral cortege took up it's march from
the door of the house of Don Juan
Manuel.
Then the wrath Of the black figure
began to promenade back and forth on
the calle And to this day, more than
two centuries later, ON dark and stormy
nights, the muffled figure of the jealous
don may yet be seen moving with slow
and stately tread, wrapped in the long,
black cloak, up and down, up and down.
And when the moon is hid and the
winds roar, and the rain dashes, and
the hour is near midnight, passengers
Of the Gale de Don Juan Manuel some
times hear woman's long moan that
dies away into sigh. The voice always