A Bdimt of Extraordinaiy MbcImi
THe Marshal
By Nary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Author jjie piprfecf Tribute, eta
CopTricU; TW Bohto-MerriB C»l«q>
CHAPTER XV— (Continued).
Ho lot her go. He sat quiet a long
time. As she turned in, still galloping,
at the high stone gate-way of the
chateau, his eyes came back again to
the little shining buckle. It seemed the
only thing tangible In a dream universe
of rapture and agony. Over and over
he heard the words she had said—words
which must mean—what? Had they
meant it? Had he possibly been mis
taken? No—the utter happiness which
came with the memory of the soft hur
ried voice must mean the truth—she
cared for him, and then over and over
and over he said, half aloud, through
his set teeth:
"I sahl that I would give my hap
piness for my seigneur's; I sahl that I
would be a friend to Pietro; I will."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MOTHER OF A PRINCE.
The walls of the palace at Ancona
•dropped to the sea; against them the
waves danced. Out on the blue water
3ay a fleet of fishing boats, and the
wind flapped torn sails, and the sun- -
light glanced on battered hulls and Ut
tered decks. The woman who sat by ]
an open window of the palace pushed .
the black trailing of her gown from
her, as If the somberness hurt her eyes; .
•he laid her head against the window- ,
frame and stared at the breeze-tossed .
waves and the fishing fleet.
"It may be our only hope of escape— |
those wretched boats,” she said, half ,
aloud, and her blue eyes were full of (
•adness, almost of hopelessness.
A sound caught her our, and she
lifted her heud quickly. The door Into ,
the next room was partly open and ,
•ome one moved there, that was all. ,
8hc turned, the lines of her figure fall- ,
Ing again Into n melancholy pose.
"The doctor takes a long time,” she |
•poke, and gazed out once more to the i
There had been a spirited young girl |
tears before who had romped In the ,
fauxlens of Malinaison, who had led the j
laughter which echoed through those
avenues of lime and plantain, whoso j
•weetnesu nnd vivacity had drawn the ,
figure of Napoleon himself Into the s
vortex of gladness which was her at
mosphere. Always brightness seemed ,
to follow her through the enchantment J
of the place; always she seemed to ,
■move in gaiety. Today, on a March t
morning of 1830, tliia was she—Hor
tense,
The daughter of France she had been, ^
the queen of Holland, and now for ,
years an exile. Here, 111, a fugitive. In ,
her nephew's pnlnce at Ancona, with ,
’the Austrians at the gate of the city, t
she waited In anxiety almost more In
tense thun she could bear the word of f
the doctor as to her son. Five days ,
before, at Forll, her older boy had died, |
and her sore heart stirred with a sick- |
enlng throb as she thought of this other
—Loyis—now her only child, lying In j
the room beyond In a high fever, 111 ,
with the disease with which his brother \
had fallen. A woman’s soul might well |
be overcrowded with such sorrow and ,
such fear, but there was more. Her |
two boys had thrown In their lot shortly ,
before with the Italian revolutionists. ]
and had fought, and had distinguished |
themselves. And now that the revolu
tlon of the Romagna was a failure, that
the Austrian army was advancing vie- .
torlously, now that death had taken
the older to safety, the younger—Louis j
•—the Invalid lad in the room beyond. ,
was In imminent danger. He was ex- ]
cepted from the goneral amnesty; the ;
natural ways of escape were closed, for ,
the authorities of Tuscany and of
Switzerland had let her know that the ]
prince would not be permitted In those ;
territories. From Rome two of her i
•on’s uncles, Cardinal Fesrh and King ,
Jerome, hud sent word that If were
taken by the Austrians he was lost. ,
And at the moment when Hortense lmd 1
decided to carry her boy off to Turkey i
by way of Corfu, an Austrian fleet ap
peared In the Adriatic.
But the spirit and the wit of the girl ,
of Malmatson were strong In the worn- ,
an who must save her son. Wherever
•he went she made new friends, so
Winning was her personality; wherever ,
•he went she found old friends who had
not forgotten her. There had been a
young English earl In the Malmaison
days who had lost his steady heart
to the piquant fascination of the
Princess Hortense as she laughed
»t him from the side of Jose
phine. He had gone away saddened,
but had never quite forgotten his
French sweetheart. At Florence, a
month before, he had appeared, and to
his Influence sho owed a Hrltish pass
port made out for an English lady trav
eling with two sons. No one would
•uspect that sho would dure take the
route described In It—through Paris to
England—but Hortense dared much al
ways. and everything for her children.
Bho had set out from Florence to find
them, to draw them from the doomed
army of Insurgents; to save them from
the Austrians. When she found them.
Napoleon the elder, was dead and
Lewis was coming down with his
brother’s malady. But the boy kept up
for his mother's sake, and the two,
fresh from their loss, had pressed hur
riedly to Ancona, for there was not a
moment to spare. So 111 herself that
•he could not stand alone, she made all
the arrangements for their escape:
English liveries, a bed In the ealeehe.
•11 were arranged, even the tragedy of
filling the place of the lost boy was ac
complished'—as it must be. for her
passport read for an English woman
with two sons. The young Marquis
Zappl, bearer of dispatches from the
revolutionists to Paris, gladly agreed
to travel with them. Suddenly Louis
collapsed. He had been dangerously
til for days, but had borne up pluckily,
biding every sign so that he might help
bis mother. The collapse lmd been the
■day before, and the doctor had prom
ised that 24 hours' rest would give him
•trength to risk the journey so neces
sary to him.
In such a critical state were the af
fairs of the black-gowned woman who
gazed from the palace windows to the
•ea. The doctor was with her son. The
boy’s condition seemed to her no better,
but worse than the dav before; she
Waited an official verdict. The door
•Pened and she locked up as a tall
nan came In.
"Doctor" she stammered and stopped
•—ehe feared to ask.
"Your majesty.” the old man said
gravely. "I grieve to be the bearer of
•ad news."
"He Is worse, doctor?" The words
•came with a gasp; she felt that she
■could not face more trouble.
"Yes, your majesty, the fever has In
creased since yesterday. With Ills youth
tend strength we may hope—If he is
11
carefully nursed—but to move him
would be madness."
Queen llortense struck her hands to
gether. "What can I do? What can I
do?" she demanded, and the doctor
stood gravely regarding her. helpless,
with all his devotion to the house of
Bonaparte, to suggest a way out. "If
he stays he will will be taken—they will
Rxocute him. If he goes he will die on
the way," she cried In an agony of In
leclslon. "Doctor, tell me, think for
me—how can I save him?”
And the doctor stood silent, suffer
ing with the impotent desire to help
ier. "If—If only the Austrians might
think that the prlnco was gone,” ho
itammered. and hated himself for the
’utility of the words. But the queen
•food with a hand half lifted, arrested,
lor blue eyes were alive with theeross
ng and weaving of swift ideas and then
.vith a catch of her breath she laughed
it him like a pleased child. "Doctor,
i'ou are a very clever man.” she said.
'Together we are going to save the
mince.”
The vivacity of the schoolgirl of
Madame do Campan flashed for a mo
nent into her manner, warmed to sud
len life by the joy of hope. The doc
or waited, enchanted, bewildered, to
'ear his cleverness explained, but Hor
ense did always the unexpected thing,
iho shook her finger at him.
"I’m not going to tell you,” she said.
‘At least not till I have to—not till to
norrow nt nil events. Hut all today,
is you visit your patients you may
hlnk that you aro saving the prince
rom Ills enemies—and tomorrow you
nay know how. Goodbye, doctor,” and,
nizzled anil pleased, the physician was
tone.
"Send Fritz to me,” the queen or
lered. nnd a moment later the young
nan who was for years the conflden
lal servant of llortense, who knew
nore of the history of her middle years,
lerhaps, than any other, stood before
ier . "Fritz, when does a packet sail
or Corfu?” she demanded.
Fritz Rlckenbarh considered It his
Misiness to know everything. "Tonight,
our majesty,” he answered unhesitat
ngly.
a uu win see mm mn luggage or
'rime Louis 1h on board, and that a
arriage Is ready to take lilm there."
he ordered.
“But yes. your majesty." Fritz still
tood regarding her seriously. “It Is a
treat happiness to me, your majesty,
hat hia highness Is well enough to
ravel."
Fritz knew perfectly that there was
complication somewhere, and he
innted to know what it was. His cu
losity was patent, but his deep lnter
st in the affairs of his people could
lot be an Impertinence, and the queen
miled at hint.
"You shall know about It. Fritz," she
aid. “Tho Austrians are coming. The
irlnce can not be moved. If they take
dm It means death. They must be
ieve that he Is gone, and It is for
ou and me to make them believe
t. Fritz. You must get a pass
lort signed by all of tho authorities—
hat is easy today; you must engage
da placo in the packet for tonight; you
oust tell the servants—tell every one—
hat the prince goes to Corfu, and you
dust see that the proper luggage Is on
lourd. It will be known that I stay,
"it they will not molest an ill woman.
)o you understand the plan. Fritz?"
"But yes, your majesty." Fritz an
wered with his face alight.
And so the packet sailed for Corfu,
md all day before sailing the servants
if Hortense moved busily between the
lalace and tho boat, carrying luggage
md making arrangements. And only
>no or two knew the secret that Prince
>ouls Bonaparte had not sailed In the
jacket, but lay tossing with fever In
i little room beyond his mother's, car
led there for greater privacy by Fritz
md the doctor.
Two days later, as the queen sat
luletly by her boy’s bedside, she heard
hat the vanguard of the Austrians had
■nterod the city, and almost at once
'>itz came to tell her that the palace
n which she was staying had been
-boson for the residence of tho general
ommanding. The probability of this
tad not entered her mind; it seemed
he last straw. The Austrian officer
lemnnded the queen’s own chumber
or his chief, but when tho steward’s
vile told him the name of the lady who
vns in the rooms which had not been
ftven up, he bowed deeply and said
lot a word. It was another of that
irotherhood scattered over Europe—
.lie friends of Hortense; it was an of
’ieer who had protected her years be
ore at Dijon.
.?° f?X 'vePk thpY lived side by
ode with their enemies and only a few
eet lay between the prince and cap
ure for his room was next that of
ho Austrian general, with hut a double
loor between. It was a life of mornen
ary anxiety, for the queen fearetl each
hue the Invalid spoke that they might
recognize a man’s voice; when he
'onShed she turned white. But at the
rid of the week Louis was at last well
inough to go. He was to leave Ancona
ilsguised as one of his mother’s lackeys
;he young Marquis Zappt was to put on
mother livery, and over the frontier
they were both to change and he the
ems of Hortense traveling on the Eng
ishman’s passport.
CHAPTER XVII
THE RUSE
The day before the escape, as the
prince, weak and 111 yet, lay in bed
word was brought that a messenger of
the marquis wished to see the queen.
, "Lef ,ne see him too, my mother."
the silent, grave, young man begged.
It may be that I can help you. I
wish to help."
In a moment Frit* introduced a slight
alert person whose delicate face was
made remarkable by a pair of eves
large and brilliant apd full of visionary
shadows, yet alive with fire. One saw
! rst those uncommon eyes and then
tiie man. If they had not been1 entirely
concerned with his message they might
have remarked that he trembled as he
looked at tile prince's face; that his
vo)ce shook as lie answered the queen's
question.
* ^lav? *he unhappiness, your maj
csl> to bring you bad news,” he said
fP€'*kl"« to her. but still gazing eager
ly at the prince. "The Marquis Zappi.
n> employer. Is ill. He was taken sud
denly last night, and today Is much
worse, and there Is no chance that he
ro!v .. veI your majesty tumor
The queen threw out her hands with
a gesture of hopelessness. "What can
wo do?" she exclaimed. “Am I to plan
and plan and have alwavs an uncon
'< arable obataeloT Can I not save my
VPy ■ 1 might have known that every
thing seemed too bright this morning,
I too good to bo true Tet It Is not pos
sible that after all they should”—she
looked at her son; her courage came
springing back. "They shall not take
you,” and her eyes flashed defiance at
a world of enemies, and she went over
and threw her arm about his neck.
"Louis, don't let yourself be excited,
dearest. They shall not take you. X
can save you.”
It was as If she put a spur to her
brain; there was a moment's silence
anrl the two lads watched her brows
drawing together under the concentra
tion of her brain.
"Of course,” she said suddenly, and
laughed—a spontaneous knighted which
seemed to flood her with youthfulness.
Rho turned her blue glance swiftly on
the newcomer, the slender boy with
the luminous eyes. "You are In the
employ of the Marquis Zappl, Mon
sieur"”
"But yes, your majesty. I am the
secretary of Monsieur le Marquis.” She
paused a second, seemed to take stock
of the young man, of his looks, his
bearing, his accent.
“You are French. Have you a sym
pathy with the family of my son, with
the Bonapartes?”
It was as If a door had been opened
Into a* furnace, so the eyes blazed.
“Your majesty, I would give my life
for his highness,” ho said quietly. The
Impassive face of the young prince
turned toward the speaker, and the
half-shut heavy glance, which had the
Napoleonic gift of holding a picture,
rested on him attentively. Louis Bon
aparte seemed to remember something.
“What is your name, monsieur?” he
asked, and It might have been noticed
that his head lifted a little from the
pillow as he waited for the answer.
"Francois Beaupre, Sire.” The young
mnn seemed to be eut of breath. “Sire!”
Louis Napoleon repeated. And then, “I
have seen you befere. Where was It?
Not In Rome—not In Switzerland—ah!”
His hand flew out. and with that Fran
cois was on his knee by the bedside,
and had kissed the outstretched thin
fingers, and the prince’s other hand was
on his shoulder fraternally.
"The old chateau of Vieques—my
playfellow, Francois. I told you then
I was going to remember, didn’t I?”
Louis Napoleon demanded, laughing
boyishly. "Mother, he saved my life
from the falling wall. Do you remem
ber the story of my run-away trip?”
And Hortanse, smiling, delighted to soe
her sad-faced boy so pleased and exhil
arated, did remember, and was gracious
and grateful to the young Frenchman.
“It Is a good omen to have you come
to us today.” she said with all the
dazzling charm which she knew how to
throw Into a sentence. And then, eager
with the headlong zest of a hunter for
the game, she caught the thread which
wove Into the patterns of her schem
ing. "You would risk something to
save him, would you not? You will
take the place of the marquis and
travel with us, tomorrow, and help me
carry away the prince to safety?"
The dark young face was pale. "Your
majesty, It Is a happiness I had not
dared to hope for yet.”
’’Yet?” the prince demanded lacon
ically. He saved words always, this
lad, but he always said his thought.
The other boy's face turned to him,
ami he answered very simply, "But yes,
your highness. I have known always
that I should have a part In your high
Louis Napoleon. In spite of practical
hard-working qualities, a sentimental
ist, a dreamer, above all a man dom
inated by a destiny, felt a quick shrill.
Unknown forces wera working
throughout Europe to place him one
day on his uncle’s throne; such was
the profound belief of his life. Might
not this man’s words, electrical with
sincerity, point to his existence as one
of those forces? It was as if he had
come suddenly on deep water trickling
underground through a dry country. He
{dunged his hand into tho spring.
"Tell me,” he ordered;
But the queen saw only the vagaries
of irresponsible boys In this spasmodic
conversation; it was important to ar
range matters; she brushed aside the
short vague sentences, and the prince,
a illcker of a smile on Ills grave face,
was silent.
In the gray dawn of the next morn
ing there was a slight stir through the
palace, and out between the lines of
drowsy Austrian sentinels passed a
procession of whose true character they
were far from aware, else history hail
changed. The guurd watched the de
parture; the sick lady—Hortense—late
queen of Holland, as they all knew
more or less clearly, drove away slow
ly In her traveling caleche, and on the
box was a young man in the livery of
a groom whom no one of the half
awake soldiers knew for Prince Louis
Napoleon; in the middlo of the gecond
carriage sat another youth of two or
three years younger, who was, the
queen's servants had been told, the
Marquis Zappl. Their passports w-ere
examined and they went through the
gates of tho city without awakening the
least suspicion. But Hortense, as she
lay back in th.e caleche, felt her heart
batter against its covering so that each
breath was pain; her mouth seemed
parched; when she tried to speak the
words would not come, or came in
gusps: it seemed an agonizing cen
tury before the city gates were passed.
And all the while the sick boy. so care
fully guarded from a cold breath of
air for days back, sat outside in a chilly
drizzle, and his mother’s anxiety was
of yet another sort as she felt the
dampness blow in upon her own shelter.
She drew a sob of relief as they gained
tho fields—yet their dangers were only
begun. All over the country which
they were about to cover they were
known, the dethroned queen and her
two sons, and Louis Napoleon’s immo
bile young face was of an individuality
not to be forgotten.
Not once in all their dramatic series
of escapes and disguises were Hortense
and her sons betrayed, but they had to
fear the indiscretion of their friends
more Ilian the maltgntty of their ene
mies, and this part of Italy was full of
friends high and low.
Over and over again they were
recognized, but mother and son
learned to trust the untiring watch
fulness of the ready resources of
the Marquis Zappl's understudy, tho
young Frenchman who had so fortu
nately and easily fitted into the empty
place on their program. The great dark
eyes, smoldering with unspoken loyal
ty, were always watching the prince.
; and he saved the invalid's strength and
1 softened the hardships of travel In
countless ways; no chance seemed to
i escape him. Louis Napoleon, living an
: intense life tinder a cold and reserved
I exterion. responding as to an electric
i wire, to every thread of incident which
seemed a possible fiber iti the fabric
' weaving, he believed, for him—the fab
i ric of his imperial power—Louis Na
! poleon lost none of the young man's
I devotion. There was little conversation
; between them, for the sick boy. often
j In great pain, had no strength to spare
! from the exciting and strenuous days,
! where adventure and escape succeeded
| adventure and escape, where each step
meant danger, and each turn of the
road anxiety. But his heart was touched
■ with a gratitude which his impassive
face was far from showing: he would
remember Ills old playmate. Francois
Beaupre.
At length it was time for Prince
I Tjouis and the sham marquis to drop
their liveries and travel as the sons of
! the Plnglish woman for whom their
| passport was made out. The clothes.
which Beaupre was to wear, had be
longed to the young man dead at Forli
—Louis Bonaparte’s brother—and as he
presented himself dressed In them, he
saw the painful flush which crept up
on the prince's face.
"Tour highness, I am sorry,” he
stammered. "It is grief to me." And
then he threw himself impulsively on
his knees by the side of Louis' chair.
"aly prince, I »mi them with rever
ence,” he said, and then, hesitating, he
added. "Perhaps I would seem less
unworthy if your highness knew that,
mere secretary as I am, I am yet more.
I am noble. It isnot simple Francois
Beaupre whom you honor, but a man
created chevalier by the sword of the
i emperor.”
Tho dull eyes of the prince shot a
glance between drooping lids. "What is
it you mean, monsieur?" he demanded.
But at the moment the queen entered
the room, and the lads sprang to their
feet. Her eyes caught the picture of
the young Frenchman in his new dress
at once; they opened wide and then
filled with tears.
"Louis, Louis!” she cried, and laid
her hand on his arm. “He looks like
him; he looks like Napoleon!”
And the brother, considering, saw
there was a certain likeness, in the
alert figure and the dark pale face.
From that on Hortense wished Fran
cois with her as much as possible, and
as he was supposed to be her son It
was natural that ho should be. There
was a rushing anxious dav or two, a
frontier passed in the middle of the
night where trouble wfth a sleepy com
missioner almost brought disaster upon
them; there wa» a city to he gone
through in broad daylight, which was
filled with traveling English, any one
of whom might know tho queen; there
was a foolish, enthusiastic, young of
ficer who noisily greeted the prince at
another post; there were hairbreadth
escapes everywhere. At length, one
night, in the valley of Chiana, they
came to a quiet little village where, so
near were they to safety, it seemed
prudent to take a night’s rest. After
this new luxury the party, refreshed
and encouraged, breakfasted together
the next morning.
A deferential knock sounded at the
door of tho breakfast room. Francois
sprang to it, and the landlord stood in
tho opening, bowing elaborately—a sol
dierly old man with thick, grizzled hair.
A thousand pardons for disturbing
mlladl and the messieurs,” and miladi
smiled forgiveness. "Might an old sol
of th,e emperor dare to say that one
could not help knowing tho emperor’s
klnsmeji? He bowed again to both
boys alike and again Hortense smiled
“ was comfl»rting to know
that the two seemed brothers to the
worid in general, and she was so used
to recognition and loyalty now that
”M?^*aPPear£d ^ belong together.
Might an old soldier of the emperor
dare to show mlladl—her majesty—
tlle highnesses, the sword which
the emperor himself had touched the
sword which he. Jean Gredin, an old
cuirassier of the guard, had carried in
four battles? There was a lltUestory
derfu? Jo<?dd'Ast0ry aIso of the "on
f„erful.*ood ?f the emperor, which mj
fifeTo y~Perm,ttins’ he would
nesses.” er‘ “ also t0 the high
majesty permitting, and tht>
boys pleased and Interested, the old
drlwrwmen brought the sword and
drew it from Its sheath and gave It
to each of them to handle, and called
-d br?gl!t’ a*t l7"
Btrro^?yerfor'theHm.7eared Ws throat’
t£3dls7'Xrr
gfw^nrm'olfrr^'^tis,
Desperate bands—" Why was it tho
landlord stopped? 1 1 the
The party, caught by the fervor of
his manner, stared at him, annoyed as
well n V'a 1 .e, emPeror- Promising so
viell, haited at its beginning. The man
stood as if drawn to his tiptoes, every
muscle tense, his head turned toward
the doorway, listening.
And suddenly they were aware of a
3tir a growing noise; there were gal
loping horses; there was a jingle of
b^rness, and voices coming nearer
\Vlth a step backward the landlord
flashed a glance from under bushy
brows down the corridor, through the
open door at the end, which gave on
the court of the inn.
“Mon Dieu!” He faced the three,
standing startled. He spoke fast and
low. "Madame, it is a squad of Aus
trian soldiers; they are upon us. What
can we do?" He hesitated only a sec
ond. "Bleu-bleu—my horse—saddled
under the tree yonder—if one of the
princess—if the prince—" He glanced
uncertainly from one lad to the other.
But the game was out or his hands.
Quicker hands than his had caught the
iday. Francois Beaupre, the saber of
the old cavalryman gleaming in his
grasp, sprang to the doorway. He
swung about, his great eyes radiating
earnestness.
"It is monsieur there who is the
prince," he explained rapidly to the
landlord. "Hide him, take care of him
—I will draw them away. When they
are gone, see that the prince and the
queen escape. That is for you; you
are responsible."
There was the rush of a flying figure
down the hallway, and out Francois
flashed across a broken line of a dozen
dismounted riders, straight toward the
landlord’s horse held by a groom under
the trees. There was a shock of
startled silence as the Impetuous ap
pm muii, saner gleaming at wrist, snot
across the court. Then there was a
hubbub of voices, and a mass of uni
formed figures fell toward him as he
threw himself on the horse. A soldier
caught a; the bridle. The naked sword
twinkled and the man was under Bleu
bleu's feet. For a second there was
a vortex of men and a frantic horse,
and riding the storm a buoyant figure
of fury, flashing a blade, with infinite
swiftness, this way and that. Then
horse and lad shot out from the living
canvas, streaked the background of
trees a second and were gone, and the
Austrian troopers scrambled into their
saddles to follow.
Through sun-spotted, breeze-tossed
woods tore the chase; across a road
and over a low fence, and still Fran
cois led, but the heavy horses gained.
It was a hopeless hunt, for the land
lord’s mount was no match for the big
cavalry horses, yet the rider's light
weight and clever horsemanship count
ed, and it was fully four miles from
the inn when Bleu-bleu stumbled and
fell at a ditch, and Francois pitched
over his head. His lead was short by
now, and they were on hhn in a mo
ment, in a mass; he was seized by a
dozen burly Austrians.
The leader took a sharp look at him
as he stood panting, staring defiantly.
"What Is this?" the Austrian de
manded sternly, and wheeled to a
trooper In a bunch. "Friedrich, thou
knowest the rub of the Uonapartes. Is
this lad he?"
And Friedrich lunged forward, gasp
ing. for he had run his horse hard,
and shook his head. “No. my captain.
I have never seen this one."
The boy looked from one to another
of the threEftenlng group, smiling, com
posed in spite of his quick breathing.
The eaptaln took a step close to him
and shook his fist in his face.
“You have fooled us, you young
game-cock, have you? But wait. Do
you know what we will do to you, you
bantam of a Frenchman? Do you
»
know how we will treat you for this, we
Austrians?"
Color deepened in his cheeks, and
Francois drew up his figure magnifi
cently. His face was radiant; he
gloried in the theatrical beauty of the
situation; for the rest, he was, as the
villagers of Vieques had said long ago,
born without fear.
"You may do what you like, mes
sieurs,” he said gaily. “It is for you;
my part is done. The prince is safe.*
CHAPTER XVIII.
AFTER FIVE YEARS.
The window of the cell was small,
but is was low enough so that a man
standing could see from it the vast sky
and the sea-line six miles away, and,
by leaning close to the bars, the hill
that sloped down into wooded country;
beyond that the sand of the shore. The
jailer stood close by the little window
fn the stormy sunset for a better light
as he dropped the medicine.
“One—two,” he counted the drops
carefuly up to nine, and then glanced
at the prisoner on his cot in the corner,
who tossed, and talked rapidly, dis
joinedly. "It is high time that the doc
tor saw him.” the jailer spoke, half
aloud. “If the governor had been here
this would not have been allowed to
run on. I am glad the governor la
coming back.”
With that the prisoner threw off the
cover from his shoulders and sat up
suddenly, with wild bright eyes staring
at the jailer.
“Pietro!” he called in astonishment.
"Why, my dear old Pietro!” and flung
out his hands eagerly toward the man,
and would have sprung from the bed to
him.
But the Jailer was at his side and
held him down, yet gently. “Be quiet,
Signor,” he said respectfully. “It is
only old Battista; you will see if you
look. Only Battista, W'ho has taken
care of you these five years."
The brilliant dark eyes stared at him
hungrily; then with a sight the light
weut out of them and the head fell on
the pillow.
“Ah, Battista,” he said, “my good
Battista.” A smile full of subtle
charm made the worn face bright. He
spoke slowly. “I thought It was my
friend—my host friend,” he explained
gently.”
“Will the signor take the doctor’s
medicine?” Battista asked then, not
mutch noticing the words, for the sick
man was cleartv light-headed, yet with
a certain pleasant throb of memory
which always moved within him at the
name of Pietro. It happened that the
name stood for some one dear to the
jailer also. The signor took the medi
cine at once, like a good child.
“Will It make me better, do you think
Battista?” he asked earnestly.
“But yes, Signor; the doctor Is
clever.”
“I want to be better; I must get well,
for I have work to do as soon as I
come out of prison.”
“Surelv, Signor. That will be soon
now', I think, for it is five yers: they
will lot you go soon, I believe,” Bat
tista lied kindly.
(Continued next week.)
t IF CHILDHOOD WOULD LAST. X
From the Boston Transcript.
A child came skipping, dancing by my
window on her way to school. The scent
of the lilacs was in the air and with it all
the Invitation and allurement of the spring
that makes the heart long for a holiday.
What would not the man of business give
if ho could skip and dance like that on his
way to work, care free and happy with
the gaiety of the morning hour. The bod
ily lightness belongs, of course, to youth;
is there no hope of a continued youth of
soul that would make our going from task
to task as happy as the child’s dance from
home to school?
We cannot, we would not wish to be free
from work or the thoughtfulness of man
hood. We And a deep source of a differ
ent kind of happiness In the tasks and re
sponsibilities which come upon us. There
is little real joy for the idle man, who is
forced to invent his own occupations. But
can we not learn or recover the child’s
secret of the happiness between, the joy
of the moment, unclouded by memories
of suffering and undaunted by fears of
what Is next to come?
Childhood Itself, Indeed, Is a time be
tween, a gleam of not unbroken sunlight
between the mystery of darkness out of
which we come and the assuming of bur
dens which we must bear our whole life
long. Childhood has its interruptions of 1
trouble that are hard to bear and Its
morning sunlight changes by slow degrees
into the glaring noon. But while Its lasts
it is dancing time for the soul. Troubles
are soon forgotten. The world affords
toys enough for play of the hands and the
Imagination.
The sight of children In the poorest city
quarters taking their toll of pleasure from
the reluctant streets and dusty lots tells
us what springs of happiness live in the
human soul and overflow' to make a green
place In the dustiest corners of the earth.
This happiness of childhood is not the gift
of circumstances, It is the gift of God.
Why should wre not, in view of our im
mortality, learn to regard our whole life
here on earth as akin to childhood—a
bridge between two stages of existence,
getting Its quality and worth from that to
which it leads and leaving room for hap
piness between Its trials and perplexities?
Debt.
• From Life.
Debt is the one thing which goes
contrary to the laws of nature, be
cause you can contract and expand it
at the same time. Nothing exceeds like
debt.
Everyone is always in debt to some
one else. Every debtor Is a creditor,
every creditor is a debtor. There be
ing no clearing house of humanity, the
thing goes on from day to day getting
more complicated.
When you borrow money from a man
who is willing to lend It to you, you
are his creditor to the extent that you
have favored him with an opportun
ity.
Everybody starts by owing the gov
ernment his part of the interest on the
national debt. As this Is increasing
all the time, the fatal habit some peo
ple have of putting off the day of their
birth counts against them.
It is declared to be immoral for poor
people to borrow money. Rich people,
who have inherited money which really
doesn't belong to them, can. howavsft
borrow all the money they can get, a
practice considered highly proper.
Debt li a poor sleeping companion.
He won't stay hitched. If you put him
off in a room by himself and draw
down the blinds, he always breaks
loose and interrupts you just when you
are beginning to enjoy yourself. If you
fall to pay his board and lodging, he
grows larger and eats more. And what
a witless companion he Is!
The Parent Chautauqua.
In this anniversary year of the Chau
tauqua movement It will l>e recalled that
Bishop Vincent ami the late Lewis Miller,
of Akron. Ohio, began their notable and
far-reaching work solely as a religious
gathering under the giant trees near the
northern end of Lake Chautauqua. N. Y.
Born in the days of t*e camp meeting, it
represented an Innovation. It was unde
nominational. or. as Mr. Miller liked to
state It. "all-denominational ." Later a
course In systematic study of the blblo
was Inaugurated. Then came courses in
arts and crafts, domestic science, and the
Introduction of programs of music ami
different phases of entertainment, and ere
long the original Chautauqua became a
cttv of streets, business blocks, schools
anil churches, Its area comprising about
31)0 acres and Its activities annually wlt
[ uessed by 50,000 people.
Soap making U an art. Why trouble
with tosji recipe* when the best chefs
In the country ere at your service? A
few cans of Libby's Soup oa your pantry
shelf assures you of the correct flavor,
reedy in e few minutes. There are
Tomato, Vegetable, Chicken, Oxtail, Coe,
sotnmo, Mock Turtle and other kinds.
Your grocer has them.
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flics. Neat, clean, or
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Ail dealers orGeent
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MEDICAL TEST EVERY YEAR
Doctor Says Most Diseases Would Els
Early Recognized and Could
Be Cured.
We have heard too much about th*
rights of the individual; let us know
more about his duties. Too much
stress has been laid on the sacred
aess of private property and too little
an the duty of all to contribute to the
welfare of the whole. Preventive
medicine has demonstrated in a prac
tical way the force of the Biblical
statements that no man ltveth to him
self alone, and that every man is his
brother’s keeper.
If preventive medicine 1b to bestow
an man its richest service, the time
must come when every citizen will
submit himself to a thorough medical
’.xamination once a year or oftener.
rhe benefits which would result from
such a service are so evident to med
cal men that retail is not desirable.
When recognized in their early stages
most of the disease which now pre
tail are amenable to treatment. The
sarly recognition of tuberculosis, can
cer and heart disease, with the elim
natlon of the more acute Infectious
iisease, would add something like
ifteen years to the average life, be
sides saving much in invalidism and
suffering. The ultimate goal of
science is the domination of the
’orces of nature and their utilization
n promoting the welfare of mankind.
Science must discover the facts and
medicine must make the application
'or either cure of prevention.—Victor
2. Vaughan, M. D., in the Journal of
;he American Medical Association.
Minimize scandal in the home of
pour neighbor and pulverize it in your
)wn.
Women’s Times of Danger
Women suffer a great deal from kidney
disease*. Their indoor life, tight clothing
and trying work all tend to weaken the
kidneys. Woman’s life also includes times
of danger that are apt to leave the kidneys
weak and to start attacks of backache, head
ache, dizziness,nervousnessand urinary ills.
Prompt treatment, however will avert
the danger of dropsy, gravel, or fatal
Bright’s disease.
Take Doan’s Kidney Pills, the best
recommended, special kidney remedy.
Doan’s are used successfully throughout
the civilized world—have brought new life
and new strength to thousands of tired,
- “ livery Picture disOOUTagod WOmWL
kTell* a Story.’*
An Iowa Case
Mrs. J. Hunt, 106 8. Sixth
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My limbs were terribly
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alone. Doan’s Kidney Pills
came to my aid Just In time
and cured me. I haven't
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Get Doan’s at Any Store. 50c a Box
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__ , , t’so any Injector, but Cutter'* Iaw*
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