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About Omaha daily bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 187?-1922 | View Entire Issue (May 24, 1903)
May 24, 1903. Bald Tvette, laughing. -You will find your Camlsard a better and more faithful hus band, I trow, than any officer of my Lord Marlborough's staff!" "I have not changed my mind." said Flower-o'-the-Corn, "aa you know very well but I wish it were over and don with." "You are not the first In your circum stances who has wished as much!" . "I am the first in my circumstances!" said Frances Well wood, quietly. "And I hope tha last also!" "But." she said to herself, under ber breath, "God, who knows all, will for give!" There was a noise without. Over all arose the keen, far-reaching hlllman's , shout, halfa Coo-ee, half yodel of tha CevenoL "Ho has come!" cried Tvette. suddenly alert and radiant, "at last!" 8he was all in red, like a maple leaf turned suddenly to a flower by one night of autumn frost, and in her hair, nestled among the weighty black braids, was a single blossom of the pomegranate, the most gorgeous scarlet God has made. Flower-o'-the-Corn was all In white, without color, save a couple of spots the sise of a florin which burned steadily on her cheeks, high up, where the heart's blood leaps up under the fine firm skin. Her ripe-wheat hair, which had given the girl her name, rippled and swirled alter nately, like honey in the comb or red gold In the bar, as you may see them unload ing it from Spanish galeons at tha quays hi Carthagma. - Yes, Billy Marshall had come at last. He was in waiting, unshaven and unshorn. In front of the pavilion a strange pivot for all this splendor to turn upon. But the bride had been firm In this, if in nothing else. She would not be married sh would not go to the altar till from the hands of Billy Marshall, the Kirkcudbright gypsy, the letter of Maurice Rath had passed Into hers. She stood up tall, pale, emotionless, her attitude tense with listening to the tumult without. Bid him come In," she said, and then as one of the temporary maids of honor went to call the mer.f enger into' the lesser of the two tents of festival, she added, "And where is the man Cavalier?" It was Yvette Who answered her. "Do you not hear?" she cried, clapping her hands with pleasure. "His people are bringing him up In triumph. Do you hear the hlllman's shout?" And through the gay rataplan of drums and the blare of trumpets there pierced the strange fitful chant of the Camlsard psalm. Yvette smiled. She had heard it a thou sand times. 'Night and morning she had been summoned from her most Interesting occupations, from books which made the blood flush hot to read, from agreeable company, from the composition of letters by means of which she had lived the dull days by letters to her maiden aunts only ' to take part In that chant. Her father liked her voice, he said. She hummed a bar or two now, accentuating the char acteristic grace notes and the nasal whine and then laughed bitterly. Except the Lord do build the house. The builders lose their pain. Except the Lord the city keen, The watchers watch in vain. The words were French, of course, but of a like rude simplicity with the Scots version, and the effect was the same. The tune was the march of Spirit Siguier, to the mutic of which he went, the soul within him "like a well-watered garden," to the torture and the stake. As yet Yvette laughed, the flap of the tent lifted, and the girl who had gone out, snatched her skirls and lace-edged draperies out of the way of contagion, let into the marquee a figure at once tre mendous In Its power and ridiculous by its flat ping rags of garments Billy Marshall, the Scottish gypsy, and promised mes senger of Maurice Ralth. . Flower-o'-the-Corn set her hand In stinctively to her heart, and the red florin pieces on her cheek faded utterly away. She removed the hand that had been pressed upon her breast and held it out. The hand of the gypsy met hers fairly, rested there a long moment and fell again to Ids side. Yvette would have given half of her kingdom to have made sure what It was that passed between them. But she 'knew that this Billy Marshall was not a man to trifle with, standing there free, his weapons redy to his finger grip and no other man within calling distance, to coerce him. So she had to be content with prom ising herself that be should be made to speak afterward. It did not strike her that It might be somewhat too late after ward. The music ceased. There was that wait ing hush which Is often more trying to the nerves than the wildest excitement that distinctive and peculiar silence that tells that a great multitude Is waiting for onr appearance. Tha orator knows It In tha last minute before he facta his audience. The murderer knows It as his last toilet Is being mad In those slow minutes befor he emerges on that grim silhouette Of dark beams. But none of these could be mar try ing than that hush to the nerves of FWwer-o'-the-Corn. True, ther was Maurice's letter. She could also feel between her fingers a fine powder, carefully folded, at tached according to Agreement to the in- THE ILLUSTRATED BEE. terlor peg of the letter. After one brief est glance she thrust the whole back Into her bosom. She breathed a long sigh. The red flushed up again into her cheek. Her eyes brightened. No, be had not deceived her. All was well. But Yvette was not by any means so well satisfied. There was something be hind something from which she, who had planned all, was somehow shut out. Well, it did not matter. Tomorrow she (that Is, others for her) would make Billy Marshall speak And at any rate Flower-o'-the-Corn would be married as firmly as half a dosen officials and the ministers of two religions could do It. Also she would be revenged upon Maurice Ralth, who was fool enough not to know when he might have been well off. Love him no, of course not! But all the same had he not kissed her of his own free wilt? Well, then, he must pay. Already she had made him pay! She thought of him writing that letter on the deck of that British ship, and laughed. She had not done with Mons Maurice Ralth. O, yes she, Yvette Foy, had a long arm. The little procession entered the great pavilion about midway its length. On either side, with a clear fairway In the center, were assembled the massed guests of the Marquis and Marquise de Montrevcl. Opposite was the door through which at the bride's coming, the marshal himself would lead In the bridegroom. The time was come. Even the heart of Yvette herself beat a Itttl faster as the trumpets and fifes rang out.- The curtain was lifted by a cord from within. A hase of glorious light fronted them, flashing uniforms of blue and scarlet and gold. The massed standards of a score of regiments, the hangings of the state pavilions of the great Malson Rouge, bar riered pikes in banks and chevaux-de-frine crossed trophies of swords, silken tassels, the Fleur de Lys everywhere, splashed in gold on creamy white. The trumpets sang out yet louder. All eyes were upon them. Bmlling, Yvette led In the bride. Most of the men Judged Yvette to be the loveliest. Even the bridegroom with the marshal on his right thought so. The two parties moved forward to meet each other in that central aisle that had been kept open. The marquis moved back a step. Yvette, with her own smile, ex pressive of the perfection of triumph, placed the hand of Flower-o'-the-Corn in that of Jean Cavalier. , There was a sileqee within as the mar riage party moved up the aisle, Frances, with her bridegroom, leading Yvette, upon the arm of her husband, glancing radiant In the rear of the train bearers. In the Interval," and just before they reached the altar, covered simply with Its purple cloth, and upon it the great ridged cross of gold, Patrick Wellwood, In his Genevan gown and the book of God In his hand, moved behind It to receive them. Then as he lifted up his hands in the first solemn benediction of his religion the Camlsard chant came from without, weird, fitful, dirgelike, prescient rather of death than of marriage happiness: Except the Lord the city keep The watchmen watch In vain. "For heaven's sake, let that whining be stopped!" said De Montrevei fiercely. "I will go myself and order it." "Hush!" said his wife, snatching at his sleeve, with a sudden whitening of the face. "I thought I heard a voice a voice I knew!" Suddenly, as she looked, the white wall of the tent was slashed with a gleaming knife from top to bottom, and through the aperture through which the black night looked wild, fierce, tremendous, leaped In the figure of a man. His long gray hair, matted and dank, fell beyond his shoulders. Madness looked out of his eyes. A glairy foam hung about his Hps which kept up an uncouth muttering. "I have found them both," he cried, "he who hath led astray my daughter he who hath made of her what she Is. You you you!" He advanced toward the marechal, who stood unmoved, while all sat paralyzed at the sudden fearful apparition. "L Mar tin Foy, will slay you and the harlot to gether!" And at the word he precipitated himself upon De Montrevei. But faster than the flashing of his knife came the cry of Tvette. "My husband! My husband!" With a breaking cry she flung herself fiercely between the assassin and his vic tim. Her breast, white and heaving under its lace and silk, received the madman's stroke fairly. The blood sprang and fell upon the frosted maple of her dress, as scarlet as Itself in the shrine of the altar candles. "He la my husband; I love him!" she cried. With a hoarse roar the crowd closed In to tear the murderer to pieces, but with an Infinitely fiercer brandishing of his knlfa and an exultant shout of "I have slain her that played the harlot among her people! To her place let her go!" He disappeared into the gash of blackness- through which the stars peered, familiar and distant and chill. Then Nicholas de Baume, the tears run ning from his eyes that had been dry for forty years, held tn his arms the woman who had given her life for his. Only nce 4k! ah open ner eyea; ouo so dark and passionate end glorious. "I am sorry," she said, looking at Cava lier and Flower-o'-the-Corn. "Do not let them marry. It was my fault." Something unseen was drowsing her life deep within, for there was little stain upon the stuff of her dress. "Be pitiful. Nicholas!" she said, "If you take my father tell him that I am your wife. I loved you. Nicholas. I wish for your soke that I had been ah, God God!" And with that she was gone. At least th leaving of Yvette Foy'a life had not mis become her. CHAPTER XLVII. The HantlaK of m Mas). "Kill the heretics! Kill! Kill!" cried the men of the Maison rouge, dashing out into the night like a swarm of angry wasps. And had it not been for the Catholic offi cers most of Cavalier's new troops might have fallen victims to the opinions which they had forsaken. Nay, Jean Cavalier himself was struck at and wounded In the . arm. The marshal In the first moments of his terrible grief hardly noticed anything that went on about him. and It was Colonel Verlat who took Flower-o'-the-Corn and her father back to th chambers of th Marechale's quarters. The Camlsard regiments had withdrawn silently and sullenly to their camp, whence by swimming the Tarn and scattering over the Causae In the darkness but few re mained to hold their leader In countenanc in th morning. But througn all the tumult of th sud den assassination and the hubbub of th camp there were certain, who from the first followed doggedly the track of the murderer. Prominent among these there was that sergeant major of the Maison Rouge, who had so long admired Yvette afar aff. There was one of the invited guests. Monsieur Bechet of the military prison, to whom she had scarcely spoken save to make of him her tool. There was a captain of artillery, and a young sub altern of foot, to neither of whom bad she ever uttered a sentence. Yet they followed Martin Foy relentlessly over the rough scrape and Slaty debris up up towards .the wide tableland of the Larsac. On the way out of camp the fugitive had rushed a deserted guardhouse, holding his great Camlsard knir red In his hand. It was night, when a certain slackness of discipline was permissible, and th under officers had most of them rone off to see the sight down at the great pavilion. Th shout of the sirigto, startled, sleepy private left in charge was followed by hla Instant flight. Whereupon, (as was known afterward) the madman helped himself liberally to arms and ammunition. The weight made him the easier to come up with, for bare foot,' on his native Larzao and carrying no weight, hardly a wolf-dog could have turned him. And Indeed It is now none so sure that escape was the man's purpose. It was In the plain midst of the limestone desert of the largest Causae In France that they hemmed him In or, rather, perhaps, that Martin Foy kneeled down, looked over his two muskets, and laid out his ammuni tion ready to his hand. He laughed In gurgling murmurs, chuck ling to himself as he made his preparations. "Now," he said, smiling triumphantly, "let them come. It Is a fair challenge. I will try my marksmanship against theirs as soon as the light cornea." At last out of the cloud slid the moon. The madman was kneeling on one knee, his musket to his shoulder. Not in vain had he been accounted the best shot among the men of the Larsac, a company of fighters and hunters, all mighty before the Lord. "Ah there) There! Do you see him? There!" Indeed every man of them saw him clear In the chill moonlight of tha Larcac. gray and frost-tempered with the altitude. But th quarry also saw hla hunters, and with a sigh Sergeant Peyrat of the Maison Rouge rolltd over and lay still very still with a bitten bullet In hla Bide. "One!" said Martin Foy. "No, two!" ha corrected himself, not without a certain glee, as he marked the moonlight shin on the blade of his knife. All the time, up the sides of the Lareae, by the narrow defiles of the Dourbie men were climbing adventurous men, brave men. all eager to shed the blood of the murderer of their chieftain's wife. In an hour they had former a circle al most complete, some lying on the scanty Juniper, crawling over the dwarf healh. spread abroad upon the lavender and sag sprawling, clinging, gliding and sliding hither and thither like lizards on hot rocks, all eager for the death of on man a man ho asked no better than to die. While there, out on the pen waste, knelt Martin Foy, a figure of fear, hatless, his long gray hair clotted with sweat and blood, his cloth ing mere rags and tatters, his whit teeth showlrg in the moonlight like thou of a trapped wa'f, now singing by snatches his Camlsard psalms, now yelling lr th mer Joy of madness and tha lust of blood. Of all that were out upon th fact of th Larcac that night he alone mad no cos ccalment. He sought ne shelter. He dWv dalned alike rock shelter and Juniper clump. 11 A grim black figure out on the waste, fear compelling, the spent moon shedding a hilxty aureole about him, loading and firing as fat as he could send the powder and shot down the barrel, yelling In unison with the ring of his ramrod that was Martin Foy, the mad Camlsard, fighting his last fight the knife, with hla daughter's blood yet red on the haft, displayed on the pallid limestone In-fore him. And thus th"? man was hunted a thou sand against one. And as Martin Foy loaded and fired, and as this one and that other. Captain Peyrat, and young Theo de Ranvllle, and Monsieur , Bechet himself-fell over with the groan of the bullock poleaxed between the thills, and died thinking It a light thing to die for a woman like Yvette, the wife of the Mar shal de Montrevei. And at that moment he saw one come up breathless, having left his dead In other car to be made ready the old soldier D Montrevei. his sword of vengeance bright In hut hand. And he saw his enemy, black against th Illumined mist, loading and firing, with laughter and singing. Bo, being the hus band of the woman slain, and raring naught for the death that sprang toward everyon that advanced, he shouted, "Follow me! I sm Nicholas de Baume, the husband of her whom the murderer slew!" And like a charging bull he rushed full at the single figure out there on the fiat graynesa of th limestone. Now Martin Foy had a loaded muHket In his hand and the Marshal de Montrevei was clear black against the moon as he came toward him. The madman could have shot him dead as he had done so muny others that night But he had heard the word. A new Idea, flashed across his brain, now crystal clear, anon working like yeast. "Her husband!" he shouted In a mlnhty voice. "Then I Martin Foy, have nhed In nocent blood. It Is here upon this blade!" "Red to the haft!" he cried, as he caught It up. "God of Gods, let me bear the sin!" And with a hand sure and tried, h plunged the great Camlxard knife, yet red with the blood of his daughter, deep Into his own heart. Selah A Song In Antlphony. Catlnat. the prophet, and one Roland, called the Red were standing at the door of the Protestant temple In the vll!age of La Cavalerle. The dally service was begin, nlng. Within the psalms were being chanted, and without the two lenders, hav ing matters to arrange for the safety of the defences, which were still being held to the death, spoke softly together, under standing each other. "Jean Cavaller-what of him?" said Ro land to the grim-featured prophet. His reply could not be heard, but front within came the chanting of the Brethren of the Way at their dally song of praise Mlnetru8tedfnl",Hr fr,en1, ,n Wnom 1 mW.I1 'H'1 of my bread. Hath lifted up his heel against me! Then, changing to a softer measure, th song went on: T "T iT"1"'8 ?f 0o1 ftre a broken splrlt- A. broken and a contrite heart. Thou O God, wilt not drspMe! I have had a letter from our brother, that true man and father In Israel. Pat rick Wellwood. Once more he Is divining the way to the soldiers who fight for th truth, even to those once called th regi ment of Ardmillan." Within th psalm was changed. Th tune came stronger and more rejolcefully: He shall be like a Tree planted by th Rivers of Water That bringeth forth his Fruit In his Season. And hla daughter?" said Roland, rather more eagerly. "Verily she was a shoot of a goodly tree an herb of grace." "Sho Is married happily and her husband la now commandant of the same regiment which, sayeth Patrick Wellwood, Is now no longer called ArdmtUan's, but Ralth' Foot-a, name Strang to the ear. Thr are happy In each other and in their chil dren, but, he adds, the wild man that waa with them hath gone to abide at a plae called Keltonhlll." , And from within cam th chorused affirmation, th continuation of the Camhr aard's song: Hla leaf also shall not wither. And whatever he doeth shall prosper. m m "And still," said Roland, 'In spit of Jean Cavalier and his defections, we, th Brethren of the Way. hold our defenced villages. The enemy hath not made an In road. No, nor ever will!" "For that give God the glory!" quoth stout Catlnat. uncovering devoutly. And from within that Mttle temple, where of old the templars had held their revels, cam the solemn doxology which closed th hill-folks' worship: As for me. thou upholdest me hi thin Integrity, And settest me before thy far forever: Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, From everlasting and to everlasting! Amen, ami amen! (THE END.) Temporary Relief With a hunted look in his eye th iamow American ordered th guide- to tak Mas till deeper Into th heart of th tractates . forest. "Why do yon seek to travel so far away from th haunta of civilization T" askjxl en of tha privileged members X th party. "I am trying to deOgt th colleg de gree r he answered, with a dry oUr Chicago Tribune
