Lincoln County leader. [volume] (Toledo, Lincoln County, Or.) 1893-1987, 1908-11-13

ways-but the ala spirit was not dead.
The. bells werd calling; the mountain
was still brigIt dresses were abroad
for the torrid children of France must
laugh.
Constable fell in with the procession
on the way to the cathedral. Reaching
there, he climbed to a huge block of stone
in the square, and hurled broadcast the
germ of fight. Many had seen him be-
fore, when hii face was haggard. He
was smiling now. There was color in his
skin, fire in his eyes, a ring in his voice.
Fear was not In him.
y carriage was not procurable, so he
walked toward the Morne d'Orange. 1t
was seven-thirty, and the distance was
two miles to the plantation house. AT
eight, or soon afterward, he would be
there eight on the morning of Ascension
Day. at nine in the launch again, speed
ing out to the smile of the bride
Twenty times a minute she recurred to
him as he walked. There was no waning
nor wearing-save a wearing brighter,
perhaps-of the images she had put in
his mind. The night had brought him
palaces and gardens and treasure houses
everywhere Ae turned, new riches broke
upon him. That her face had lain be-
tween his hands; that his hands had
brought that face to his own; that her
whispers, kisses, condolences, her prayers
and passions and coming years, all found
their center and origin in himself, like
bright doves that had a cote within his
Lo
to such heights of praise and blessedness
that he seemed to shatter the dome of hu-
man limitations, and emerge crown and
shoulders into the illimitabe ether.
The road up the morne stretched blind
ing white before him. Painting and spent
not little, he strobe upward through
the vicious pressure of heat, holding his
helmet free from his head, that the air
might circulate under the rim. At length,
upon the crest of the morne, he perceived
the gables of the plantation house, above
| the palms and mangoes, gold-brown in the
dazzling haze.
Pelee roared. Sullen and dreadful out
of the silence voiced the monster, reused
to his labor afresh. The American began
to run, glancing back at the darkening
north. The crisis was not
passed in favor of peace. The holiday
was darkened. The Madame would fill
with refugees now, and the road to Fort
de France turn black with fight. These
were his thoughts as he ran.
The lights of the day burned out one
by one. The crust of the earth stretched
to cracking tension. The air was beet
ling with strange conclusions. In the
clutch of realization, he turned one shin
ing look toward the sea. Detonations ac-
cumulated into the crash of a thousand
navies.
On the porch of the plantation house,
twenty yards away, stood the mother of
Lara, her eyes fascinated, lost in the
north. At the steps he fell, caught her
skirt, her waist, in his hands. Across the
lawn, through the roaring black, he bore
her, brushing her fingers and her fallen
hair from his face. He reached the curb.
ing of the old well with his burden, crawl.
ed over, and grasped the rusty chain. L.
candescent tongues Tapped the ci5tern's
raised coping, and running streams of red
dust filtered down.
1t was eight in the morning of Ascen-
sion Day. La Montague Pelee was Civ
ing birth to Death.