death,

With spiders' webs inwoven. But it hung
Beyond his grasp; so, rising, put he forth
His old man's shanks, shriveled and horrible.
Haggard before him stood the Monk. "Then
perish,

Impenitent blasphemer, in thy sins!"

He spoke; and, covering at a single bound
The intervening space, with eyes that burned,
Gleaming deep-set below his tonsured crown
As coals upon a forge, cool, resolute,
Grappling the Margrave by the throat, despite
His shrieks of "Help" and "Murder!" and de-
spite

His white locks o'er the pillow streaming loose,
Strangled him-these the only added words:
Die, Margrave, die! this time without re-
prieve!"

Then, calm and grave, he reverently bends

crest

Didst bear a hydra blazoned, thou wilt be
Naked and helpless as a dunghill worm!
Then to the fire that dies not hurried on,
Bleeding from prick of demons' pointed wings,
Hands bound, feet chained, and prodded by their
forks,

Vainly thy crippled limbs would hold thee back;
Hell gapeth for thee! Thou art forward thrust,
Thy white beard singed in the all-devouring
heat!"

As might a mother o'er her sleeping babe ; Lifts and relights a lamp thrown down; and, kneeling

forth,

Offering thy keys of paradise, I tell thee,

To yonder boors so busy with their chants;

Of untold horrors! I was sergeant then.
The city carried, we laid siege to houses,
All shut up close, and with a treacherous look

Will need anon that heaven its gates unclose!
As to my own account-Satan is prince,
I marquis; and on equal terms alone
Will I confront him, seeing that we are
Gentlemen both of us, of lineage both
Most ancient and most lofty. Also, there
Down in his hell shall I again encounter
Comrades, my best and bravest of old days,
Who in the battle's whirlwind fell by steel;
And tourneys will we interchange and fêtes!
Meantime for you, my minions, you who dance
And light up bonfires and are all elate,
I have imagined such a jubilee—
Such rich repast for my pet carrion-birds-
That, centuries hence, your sons will doff their
hats,

Passing within the shadow of my tomb!"

And Gottlob, panting as the maniac pants, Turned his black looks to a panoply of arms, Where swords a score in iron posy ranged

""Tis the priests' doing!" was the word passed

round;

So that although since daybreak under arms—
Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths
Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends-piff! paff !
Rattled the musketry with ready aim,

If shovel-hat and long black cloak were seen
Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street
My company worked on. I kept an eye
On every house-top right and left, and saw
From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth
Coloring the sky, as from the chimney-tops
Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped,
Entering the low-pitched dens. When they
came out,

With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers
Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound
In such a dangerous defile not to leave

Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum

beat,

bright,

As do recruits when flinching.

In silver at her breast. Her piano closed,
Her jewels put away—all save one ring,
Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve
In the past spring-time when with tremulous joy
She had pledged her life-in quiet corner, mind-
less

Of what was done, unheeding what was said,
Pale, stoical, she waited.

When he learned

Our first defeat, the Viscount, as a man
Smitten when joyous at high festival,
Groaned; but his action gallant was and prompt.
Bidding farewell, and from Irene's brow
Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it
In gold medallion close upon his heart,
Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks
He took a private's place. What that war was
Too well is known.

Impassible, and speaking
Seldom as might be of her absent lover,
Irene daily, at a certain hour,
Watched at her window till the postman came
Down o'er the hill along the public road,
His mail-bag at his back. If he passed by,
Nor any letter left, she turned away,
Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.

But Roger wrote; nor were Irene's fears,
Up to mid-August, unendurable.
He with the army was in fact at Metz
Blocked in. Then, gathering from a fugitive
Who had fled thence that Roger had survived
The earlier battles, she in sight of all
Held back her rebel tears, and bravely strove
To live debarred of tidings. She became
More pious, passing many an hour at church.
Often she visited the village poor,
Freest of converse, liberal most, in homes

Whence by the war the sons had been with

drawn.

Then came the siege of Paris-hideous time! Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion

Drew near Irene's château. Uhlans foraged
The country round. But all in vain the priest
And the old doctor, in their evening talk
Grouped with the family around the hearth,
Death for their constant theme before her took.
No sad foreboding could that young heart know.
Roger at Metz was with his regiment, safe,
At the last date unwounded. He was living;
He must be living; she was sure of that.
Thus by her faith in faithful love sustained,
Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.

II.

Wakened, one morning, with a start, she heard
In the far copses of the park shots fired
In quick succession. 'Twas the enemy!

Been a mere skirmish-that, and nothing more. Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiers Had been abruptly by our Franc-Tireurs Surprised and driven off. The distant glades Resumed their wonted silence.

""Twould be well," Remarked Irene, "that an ambulance Were posted here.”

In fact, they had picked up Just at that moment, where the fight had been, A wounded officer-Bavarian was heShot through the neck. And, when they brought him in,

That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,

Stretched on a mattress, without sigh or shudder
Irene had him carefully borne up
Into the room by Roger occupied
When he came wooing there. Then, while they

put

The wounded man to bed, she carried out
Herself his vest and cloak all black with blood;
Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,
And stir himself with more alacrity;

And, when the doctor dressed the wound, lent aid,
As of the Sisterhood of Charity,

With her own hands. The officer at last,
Wonder and gratitude upon his face,
Sank down among the pillows deftly laid.
Asked for what linen rags might be at hand,
Then by that drowsy head she took a seat,
And wrought them into lint. Irene thus
Interpreted her duty.

Evening came,
Bringing the doctor. When he saw his patient,
A strange expression flitted o'er his face,
As to himself he muttered: "Yes; flushed cheek;
Pulse beating much too high. Phew! a bad

night;

Fever, delirium, and the rest that follows!" "But will he die?" with tremor on her lip Irene asked.

"Who knows? If possible,

I must arrest the fever. This prescription Often succeeds. But some one must take note Of the oncoming fits; must watch till morn, And tend him closely."

"Doctor, I am here."

"Not you, young lady! Service such as this One of your valets can—'

'No, doctor, no!
Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,
Hurt, ill. If he such tending should require
As does this officer, I would he had
A German woman for his nurse."

"So be it," Answered the doctor, offering her his hand. "You will keep watch, then, through the night. The fever

Must not take hold, or he will straightway die.
Give him the potion four times every hour.
I will return to judge of its effects

At daylight." Then he went his way, and left
Irene to her office self-imposed.

III.

Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,
When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,
With eye half opened looked at her and spoke.
"This doctor," said he, "thought I was asleep:
But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;
I thank you from my very inmost heart-
Less for myself than for her sake, to whom
You would restore me, and who there at home
Awaits me."

"Hush!" she said. Sleep if you can. Do not excite yourself. Your life depends On perfect quiet.

"No," he answered-" no! I must at once unload me of a secret That weighs upon me. And I would keep it. “Speak, then,” Irene said, “and ease your soul."

I a promise made; Death may be at hand."

'The war. . . . oh, what an infamy is war! It was last month, by Metz; 'twas my ill fate To kill a Frenchman."

She turned pale, and lowered The lamp-light to conceal it. He continued: "We were sent forward to surprise a cottage Strengthened and held by some of yours. We did As hunters do when stalking game. The night Was clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force, Along the poplar-bordered path we crept Up to the French post. I, first, drove my saber Into the soldier's back who sentry stood Before the door. He fell; nor gave the alarm. We took the cottage, putting to the sword Every soul there.”

Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,
I stooped, to offer him a helping hand;
But, with choked voice, 'It is too late,' he said.
'I must needs die. . . . You are an officer-
A gentleman perchance.' 'Yes; tell me, quick;
What can I for you?' 'Promise—only promise
To forward this,' he said, his fingers clutching
A gold medallion hanging at his breast,
Dabbled in blood, 'to-' Then his latest thought
Passed with his latest breath. The loved one's

name,

Mistress or bride affianced, was not told

By that poor Frenchman. Seeing blazoned arms
On the medallion, I took charge of it,
Hoping to trace her at some future day
Among the old nobility of France,
To whom reverts the dying soldier's gift.
Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swear
That, if death spares me not, you will fulfill
This pious duty in my place."

Therewith

He the medallion handed her; and on it Irene saw the Viscount's blazoned arms. Then her heart agonized with mortal woe"I swear it, sir!" she murmured. "Sleep in peace!"

IV.

Solaced by having this disclosure made,
The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,
Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame
Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.
Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;
His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient ;
The very blood-stains his! Nor was his death
Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,
Without or cry or call for comrades' help,
Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies

The man who murdered him! Yes; he has boasted

How in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.
And now he sleeps with drowsiness oppressed,
Roger's assassin; and 'twas she, Irene,
Who bade him sleep in peace! And then, again,
With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme-
She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!
She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,
As loving mother by a suffering child!
She must at briefest intervals to him
Administer the remedy prescribed,

So that he die not! And the man himself
Counting on this in quiet, sheltered, housed
Under the roof of hospitality!

And there the flask upon the table stands
Charged with his life. He waits it! Is not this
Beyond imagination horrible?

What! while she feels creeping and growing on her

Up toward the antique Christ in ivory At the bed's head suspended on the wall Irene raised the martyr's look sublime; Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyes Turned to the God of Calvary, poured out The soothing draught, and with a delicate hand Gave to the wounded man the drink he asked.

Thou, Lord, and thou alone, didst see what passed

Beside that couch in those funereal hours.
Thou, who by Satan to the desert led
When in that gloom the Evil Spirit spoke,

Couldst only at the last find strength to say,

But when the doctor in the morning came, And saw her still beside the officer, Tending him still and giving him his drink With trembling fingers, he was much amazed.

"I

WAS born to travel and to make verses," sighed Théophile Gautier, thinking of the number of columns in a daily newspaper which he was bound to fill up somehow or other, for the sad consideration of so many centimes a line -a moral slavery more galling than the whip and the chain of the debased South African. For the indignant journalist, who had to hatch up improbabilities, scurrilities, and rubbish of any kind to furnish "copy" for a penny periodical, and expend his time and his brain-power on something which brought him neither fame nor fortune, but simply a dinner and a lodging, was a poet of rare genius. And, like all poets, he loved his ease and the ever-changeful aspect of nature, and burned to behold the fabled marvels of faroff lands. And, like all poets again, or at least a great many of them, he had fewer bank-notes than illusions—which are unfortunately a kind of

lettre de change that bankers can not be found to honor, and with which one does not get far upon one's travels in these degenerate days, when troubadours are at a mournful discount, and when even Geoffrey Rudel might bawl himself hoarse without getting so much as a supper of bread and cheese, if his purse were minus a silver lining!

The Fates, however, were more propitious to this poet pining for the sandal-shoon and the cockle-shell of the roving pilgrim than to many others of his gifted brotherhood, who seldom obtain what they most sigh for until the desire of it has passed away, and its possession can no longer bring the happiness it might have done had it come when it was wanted. Théophile Gautier not only found leisure by and by to make the verses for whose especial fabrication he was first introduced into an unromantic world (and what