Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1904-10-01

The talk turned presently upon utefa-
ture, and Idris, remembering that Lorelie
was an author said:
Lady Walden, will you not give us
reading from your play?
20, yes do" cried Beatrice, impulsively.
Lorelie hesitated. The drama written
by her. had been work of time and pa
thence; 1t was as near perfection as she
would ever be able to bring it; she had
poured her noblest feelings into the work.
But she knew that what seems good to
the author often seems bad to the critic:
that the thoughts, supposed to be orig
inal, prove to be merely echoes of what
others have said before in far better Ian
guage; that the line that separates elo-
quence from bombast is easily passable
on the wrong side.
These were the motives disposing Lore
lie to keep her tragedy to herself The
person who should have been the first to
give encouragement on this occasion was
mute; for War maintained an air of in
difference.
Deserves kicking" was Idris' secret
comment, as he became conscious of
suggestion of humiliation in Lorelie's
manner, due to her husbands want of APP
probation. And" he added to himself,
Il should very much like to do the kick
ing
Moved at last by the solicitations of her
two visitors Lorelie produced the manu-
script of her play and prepared to read
some portions of it.
This drama of mine, The Fatal Skull"
she began, derives it's name from the
central incident in tan incident of early
Italian history. Alboin, King of the Lom-
bards. had become enamored of Rosamond,
the beautiful daughter of Cunimund, king
of the Gepids. Both father and daughter,
however, rejected the suit. for Lombards
and Gepids had long been at feud Embas-
sizes having failed, Alboin resolved to at
tain his object by force. and accordingly.
entered the territories of Cunimund with an
army. In the battle that followed the Gepid
king was slain, his forces put to the rout.
and his daughter Rosamond became the
prize and the reluctant bride of the con-
queror Alboin.
How dreadful" murmured Beatrice, ito
be compelled to marry the man who had
slain her father!'
THE sequel is more dreadful returned
Lorelie. 1.-THE death Of Cunimund was not
sufficient to satiate the hatred of Alboin;
the skull of the fallen king, fashioned into
drinking cup, became the most treasured
ornament of his sideboard.
''Feasting one day with his companions
Cunimund. The cup of victory'-to quote
the words of Gibbon-'was accepted with
horrid applause by the circle of the Lom-
bard chiefs. Fill it again with wine," ex-
the brim; carry this goblet to the queen,
and request in my name that she would
rejoice with her father" In an agony of
grief and rage, Rosamond had strength to
and, touching it with her lips, pronounced
a silent imprecation that the insult should
be washed away in the blood Of Alboin.' ="
"And did she kill her husband?" asked
Beatrice.
YES with the help of his armourbearer
Helmichis.''
Having thus set forth the argument,
Lorelie, unfolding her manuscript, began to
read certain scenes from her play. The
reading of them was a revelation both to
Idris and Beatrice; there was a masculine
vigor in the lines; the thoughts were as no
BILE as they were original, and graced by
n,,1 NV nacSl crQc n
exquisite beauty.
Charmed by the melody of Lorelie's
voice. charmed still more by the lovely
face set in a frame Of dark hair. 1dris sat
entranced. with something more than adj
miratiOn in his eyes. And as beatrice OBJ
served his rapt attitude, his accelerated
breathing, she trembled uneasily; not for
herself. but for Lorelie. In the near flu
ture, when the young viscountess should
have come to learn the worthlessness of
her husband and to experience the misery
of existence with him. would she have
sufficient strength apd purity of soul to re-
sist the temptation of flying to the arms
of Idris? Their meeting with each other
was a foolish playing with fire, and could
have but one ending. Beatrice ceased to
listen to the reading of the play, and
grew miserable with her own thoughts.
Lady Walden" said Idris when she had
finished her recital, your drama is a work
of real genius"
His praise was sweeter to Lorelie than
the praise of a thousand other critics. and
her cheek flushed with triumph.
You certainly ought to have it put upon
the stage" he continued.
YES" chimed in Ivar: for even his sui
len nature had been moved to admiral ton:
you must not hide your light under a
bushel. If one is a genius, let the world
know it,
eff this play should ever be acted" said
Lorelie, then let me take the chief part in
it. Who more fit to play the role of Rosa
mond than the creator of Rosamond?'
"Well, whenever you desire to begin
hearsals." said Idris, jocularly, Miss
Ravengar can supply you with one item of
stage property in the shape of real
skull"
"But you would not drink from a real
skull?' said Beatrice.
TT would add to the effect" smiled
Lorelie.
Drink from a real skull? All, how hor-
rid!' exclaimed Beatrice
In reciting the words of the wronged and
indignant queen, Lorelie had caught the
genuine spirit of the character; and now,
inspired by the idea of becoming its
ponent upon the stage. she rose to her
feet, her eyes sparkling with the light
of future triumph.
AS she stood upon the hearth in statu-
esque pose, she seemed to be the very queen
of tragedy, to be breathing, as it were,
the air of vengeance: spirit contrary
to her usual sweet self that Idris did not
like to witness it's assumption. however
of the fierce Rosamond
II can see the eyes of the theater riveted
upon me-" she murmured, picturing to her
self the future representation of her drama,
"as enter the banqueting hall of the Lom-
bard chiefs, and advance to drink from
the fatal cup! How the audience will thrill
as they watch! How awful the silence as
Rosamond places her lips to her fathers
skull!'
She illustrated her words by taking the
antique vase from the mantel and going
through the action of drinking from it,
shuddering as she did so; though whether
her shudder was mere stimulation or a
real thing occasioned by the supposed ma
ture of its contents was more than ldris
could tell.
And when the hour for vengeance came,
l would rise to the height of the occa-
sion, and strike down Alboin-sow
Drawing from her hair a long and gleam-
ing hairpin shaped like a stiletto she went
through the motion of stabbing an imagi-
nary figure.
"Die!" she exclaimed, in an exultant
tone, and quoting the words of her play.
This RosamOnd sends "
There was a weird roll of her glittering
eyes as she flung out her left hand tightly
clenched; a swiftness and ferocity in the
downward stroke of the stiletto in her
right, so suggestive of real murder that
Idris glanced at her feet. almost expect
ing to see human figure lying there.