The watchman and southron. [volume] (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, 1912-08-31

O@0 usys sAtof Sucu IN experience
at the hands Of those who had par
taken Of the Seignsur's nberaHty, the
boy, al bruised and aching. ned to
the woods. and. with the instinct OF
an animal to hide. buried himself IN
its deepest recesses. Night came; en-.
compasssd BY strange sounds, un-
known terrors. he crept TO the verge
OF the forest. and lying there. looked
out across the distance toward the
scattered habitations, visible through
the gloom. One tiny yellow DOT of
Hight which he located held his
glance. Should he ieturnY That
small stone hut. sQualid a. It was,
had been his only remembered homo.
But the thought Of the reception that
awaited him there made him hesi-
tate; the stars coming out, seemed 10
iund courage to his resolution, and,
with his lace yet turned toward tho
low long strip Of land. sprinkled with
the faint rsosdins points Of light, he
fall asleep.
The earliest shafts OF morn. how
ever, awaking him. sent him quickly
back into the dark forest. where ali
day hs kept to the most shadow
screens and covers. fearing hs should
- followed. and. perhaps. captured.
But the second night was like the
nrst, the next like the second, and the
days continued to pass with no sixna
OF pursuit. Pinched by hunger, Ger.
tain OF the berries and roots he ats
poisoned him. until in time he pronted
By his sufRerings and learned TO dis
criminats in his choice OF the frugai
rare about him. Not that his appe.
tits Was ever satisfied. even when he
extsndsd his explorations to the
beach at night. digging In tne sand
with his Singers for cookies, or prowl.
Ing about the rocks for musseis.
Hst, despite all. he hugged to his
breast . compensating seuss Of lib.
erty; the biting tooth OF autumn was
preferable TO the stripes and tongue.
lashings OF the old life; and. II now
frugal rspasts were the rule. hunger
had often been his lot In the past. SO
he assimilatsd with his surroundings:
learned not to fear the animals. and
thsys TO know him; indeed, they
seemed TO recognise him by that
sharp unsatsd CLINT of the eye a. one
OF their kind. When the days grew
bleaksr and the nights colder. he took
refuge In q corner within the gray
walls OF the moss-grown castle of his
ancestors. the old Seigneurs. No
cheerful place. above all at night.
when the spirits Of the dead seem to
v>.k abroad. ard soSs, means. and
fierce voices all the air! Then, creep.
ing closer to the fre he had started
In the giant hearth, wide-eyed he
would listen. only at length through
sheer weariness to fall asleep. Never.
,theless, IL was q shelter, and here.
throughout the winter. the boy re-
mained.
. Here. too. Sanchez, the Seigneur's
old servant. returning months later
from long wanderings to the vicinity
OF the Mount-for no especial reason.
ssvs the desire once more to see the
placs--had found him. And at the
ss8ns tuo msn LroWue0.
In the later days. the Seigneur
Desaurac had become somewhat un-
mindful. II not forgetful, of his own
nesh and blood. II may be that the
absorbing character Of the large and
chivalrous motives that animated him
left little disposition or leisure for
private concerrs; at any rate. he
seemed seldom TO have thought, much
less spoken Of. that hostage OF for
tune he had left behind: an absent
mindedness that in no wise surprised
the servant-which. indeed, met the
mans full. unspoksn approval! The
Seimeur. his master. was q noble,
man OF untarnished ancestry, to bs
followed and served; the SON
sanches had never forgiven thu
mother her low-born extraction. He
was. himself. . peasant!