Chapter VI: Part 6

He has always been a man very sensitive to the intellectual values of life, and fully inclined perhaps to approach the spiritual through those. It is easy to misunderstand a religious teacher of this temperament, and his admiring students may have sometimes done so.

One in particular I remember to have heard of who neglected the lecture-room to cultivate upon his own responsibility the misson work of what was known as Abbott Village. To the Christian socialism of our day, the misery of factory life might seem as important for the future clergyman as the system of theology regnant in his particular seminary--but that was not the fashion of the time; at all events, the man was a student under the Professor's orders, and the orders were: keep to the curriculum; and I can but think that the Professor was right when he caustically said:

"That ---- is wasting his seminary course in what _he calls doing good_!"

Sometimes, too, the students used to beg off to go on book-agencies, or to prosecute other forms of money-making; and of one such Professor Park was heard to say that he "sacrificed his education to get the means of paying for it."

I am indebted to Professor Park for this: "Professor Stuart and myself were reluctant to release them from their studies. Professor Stuart remarked of one student that he got excused _every_ Saturday for the purpose of going home for a _week_, and always stayed a _fortnight_."

The last time that I saw Professor Park he told me a good story. It concerned the days of his prime, when he had been preaching somewhere--in Boston or New York, I think--and after the audience was dismissed a man lingered and approached him.

"Sir," said the stranger, "I am under great obligations to you. Your discourse has moved me greatly. I can truly say that I believe I shall owe the salvation of my soul to you. I wish to offer, sir, to the seminary with which you are connected, a slight tribute of my admiration for and indebtedness to you." The gentleman drew out his purse.

"I waited, breathless," said Professor Park, with his own tremendous solemnity of manner; "I awaited the tribute of that grateful man. At what price did he value his soul? I anticipated a contribution for the seminary which it would be a privilege to offer. At what rate did my converted hearer price his soul?--Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands? With indescribable dignity the man handed to me--a five-dollar bill!"

THE WAGER OF THE MARQUIS DE MÉROSAILLES.

BY ANTHONY HOPE,

AUTHOR OF "THE PRISONER OF ZENDA," "THE DOLLY DIALOGUES," ETC.

In the year 1634, as spring came, there arrived at Strelsau a French nobleman, of high rank and great possessions, and endowed with many accomplishments. He came to visit Prince Rudolf, whose acquaintance he had made while the prince was at Paris in the course of his travels. King Henry received Monsieur de Mérosailles--for such was his name--most graciously, and sent a guard of honor to conduct him to the Castle of Zenda, where the prince was then staying in company with his sister Osra. There the marquis on his arrival was greeted with much joy by Prince Rudolf, who found his sojourn in the country somewhat irksome, and was glad of the society of a friend with whom he could talk and sport and play at cards. All these things he did with Monsieur de Mérosailles, and a great friendship arose between the young men, so that they spoke very freely to one another at all times, and most of all when they had drunk their wine and sat together in the evening in Prince Rudolf's chamber that looked across the moat toward the gardens; for the new chateau that now stands on the site of these gardens was not then built. And one night Monsieur de Mérosailles made bold to ask the prince how it fell out that his sister the princess, a lady of such great beauty, seemed sad, and showed no pleasure in the society of any gentleman, but treated all alike with coldness and disdain. Prince Rudolf, laughing, answered that girls were strange creatures, and that he had ceased to trouble his head about them--of his heart he said nothing--and he finished by exclaiming, "On my honor, I doubt if she so much as knows you are here, for she has not looked at you once since your arrival!" And he smiled maliciously, for he knew that the marquis was not accustomed to be neglected by ladies, and would take it ill that even a princess should be unconscious of his presence. In this he calculated rightly, for Monsieur de Mérosailles was greatly vexed, and, twisting his glass in his fingers, he said:

"If she were not a princess, and your sister, sir, I would engage to make her look at me."

"I am not hurt by her looking at you," rejoined the prince; for that evening he was very merry. "A look is no great thing."

And the marquis being also very merry, and knowing that Rudolf had less regard for his dignity than a prince should have, threw out carelessly:

"A kiss is more, sir."

"It is a great deal more," laughed the prince, tugging his mustache.

"Are you ready for a wager, sir?" asked Monsieur de Mérosailles, leaning across the table toward him.

"I'll lay you a thousand crowns to a hundred that you do not gain a kiss, using what means you will, save force."

"I'll take the wager, sir," cried the marquis; "but it shall be three, not one."

"Have a care," said the prince. "Don't go too near the flame, my lord. There are some wings in Strelsau singed at that candle."

"Indeed, the light is very bright," assented the marquis, courteously. "That risk I must run, though, if I am to win my wager. It is to be three, then, and by what means I will, save force?"

"Even so," said Rudolf, and he laughed again. For he thought the wager harmless, since by no means could Monsieur de Mérosailles win so much as one kiss from the Princess Osra, and the wager stood at three. But he did not think how he wronged his sister by using her name lightly, being in all such matters a man of careless mind.

But the marquis, having made his wager, set himself steadily to win it; for he brought forth the choicest clothes from his wardrobe, and ornaments and perfumes; and he laid fine presents at the princess's feet; and he waylaid her wherever she went, and was profuse of glances, sighs, and hints; and he wrote sonnets, as fine gentlemen used in those days, and lyrics and pastorals, wherein she figured under charming names. These he bribed the princess's waiting-women to leave in their mistress's chamber. Moreover, he looked now sorrowful, now passionate, and he ate nothing at dinner, but drank his wine in wild gulps as though he sought to banish sadness. So that, in a word, there was no device in Cupid's armory that the Marquis de Mérosailles did not practise in the endeavor to win a look from the Princess Osra. But no look came, and he got nothing from her but cold civility. Yet she had looked at him when he looked not--for princesses are much like other maidens--and thought him a very pretty gentleman, and was highly amused by his extravagance. Yet she did not believe it to witness any true devotion to her, but thought it mere gallantry.

Then one day Monsieur de Mérosailles, having tried all else that he could think of, took to his bed. He sent for a physician, and paid him a high fee to find the seeds of a rapid and fatal disease in him; and he made his body-servant whiten his face and darken the room; and he groaned very pitifully, saying that he was sick, and that he was glad of it, for death would be better far than the continued disdain of the Princess Osra. And all this, being told by the marquis's servants to the princess's waiting-women, reached Osra's ears, and caused her much perturbation. For she now perceived that the passion, of the marquis was real and deep, and she became very sorry for him; and the longer the face of the rascally physician grew, the more sad the princess became; and she walked up and down, bewailing the terrible effects of her beauty, wishing that she were not so fair, and mourning very tenderly for the sad plight of the unhappy marquis. Through all Prince Rudolf looked on, but was bound by his wager not to undeceive her; moreover, he found much entertainment in the matter, and swore that it was worth three times a thousand crowns.

At last the marquis sent, by the mouth of the physician, a very humble and pitiful message to the princess, in which he spoke of himself as near to death, hinted at the cruel cause of his condition, and prayed her of her compassion to visit him in his chamber and speak a word of comfort, or at least let him look on her face; for the brightness of her eyes, he said, might cure even what it had caused.

Deceived by this appeal, Princess Osra agreed to go. Moved by some strange impulse, she put on her loveliest gown, dressed her hair most splendidly, and came into his chamber looking like a goddess. There lay the marquis, white as a ghost and languid, on his pillows; and they were left, as they thought, alone. Then Osra sat down, and began to talk very gently and kindly to him, glancing only at the madness which brought him to his sad state, and imploring him to summon his resolution and conquer his sickness for his friends' sake at home in France, and for the sake of her brother, who loved him.

"There is nobody who loves me," said the marquis, petulantly; and when Osra cried out at this, he went on: "For the love of those whom I do not love is nothing to me, and the only soul alive I love--" There he stopped, but his eyes, fixed on Osra's face, ended the sentence for him. And she blushed, and looked away. Then, thinking the moment had come, he burst suddenly into a flood of protestations and self-reproach, cursing himself for a fool and a presumptuous madman, pitifully craving her pardon, and declaring that he did not deserve her kindness, and yet that he could not live without it, and that anyhow he would be dead soon and thus cease to trouble her. But she, being thus passionately assailed, showed such sweet tenderness and compassion and pity that Monsieur de Mérosailles came very near to forgetting that he was playing a comedy, and threw himself into his part with eagerness, redoubling his vehemence, and feeling now full half of what he said. For the princess was to his eyes far more beautiful in her softer mood. Yet he remembered his wager, and at last, when she was nearly in tears, and ready, as it seemed, to do anything to give him comfort, he cried desperately:

"Ah, leave me, leave me! Leave me to die alone! Yet for pity's sake, before you go, and before I die, give me your forgiveness, and let your lips touch my forehead in token of it! And then I shall die in peace."

At that the princess blushed still more, and her eyes were dim and shone; for she was very deeply touched at his misery and at the sad prospect of the death of so gallant a gentleman for love. Thus she could scarcely speak for emotion; and the marquis, seeing her emotion, was himself much affected; and she rose from her chair and bent over him, and whispered comfort to him. Then she leant down, and very lightly touched his forehead with her lips; and he felt her eyelashes, that were wet with her tears, brush the skin of his forehead; and then she sobbed, and covered her face with her hands. Indeed, his state seemed to her most pitiful.

Thus Monsieur de Mérosailles had won one of his three kisses; yet, strange to tell, there was no triumph in him, but he now perceived the baseness of his device; and the sweet kindness of the princess, working together with the great beauty of her softened manner, so affected him that he thought no more of his wager, and could not endure to carry on his deception. And nothing would serve his turn but to confess to the princess what he had done, and humble himself in the dust before her, and entreat her to pardon him and let him find forgiveness. Therefore, impelled by these feelings, after he had lain still a few moments listening to the princess's weeping, he leapt suddenly out of the bed, showing himself fully clothed under the bedgown which he now eagerly tore off, and he rubbed all the white he could from his cheeks; and then he fell on his knees before the princess, crying to her that he had played the meanest trick on her, and that he was a scoundrel and no gentleman, and yet that, unless she forgave him, he should in very truth die. Nay, he would not consent to live, unless he could win from her pardon for his deceit. And in all this he was now most absolutely in earnest, wondering only how he had not been as passionately enamoured of her from the first as he had feigned himself to be. For a man in love can never conceive himself out of it; nor he that is out of it, in it: for, if he can, he is halfway to the one or the other, however little he may know it.

At first the princess sat as though she were turned to stone. But when he had finished his confession, and she understood the trick that had been played upon her, and how not only her kiss but also her tears had been won from her by fraud; and when she thought, as she did, that the marquis was playing another trick upon her, and that there was no more truth nor honesty in his present protestations than in those which went before--she fell into great shame and into a great rage; and her eyes flashed like the eyes of her father himself, as she rose to her feet and looked down on Monsieur de Mérosailles as he knelt imploring her. Now her face turned pale from red, and she set her lips, and she drew her gown close round her lest his touch should defile it (so the unhappy gentleman understood the gesture), and she daintily picked her steps round him lest by chance she should happen to come in contact with so foul a thing. Thus she walked toward the door, and, having reached it, she turned and said to him:

"Your death may blot out the insult--nothing less;" and with her head held high, and her whole air full of scorn, she swept out of the room, leaving the marquis on his knees. Then he started up to follow her, but dared not; and he flung himself on the bed in a paroxysm of shame and vexation, and now of love, and he cried out loud:

"Then my death shall blot it out, since nothing else will serve!"

For he was in a very desperate mood. For a long while he lay there, and then, having risen, dressed himself in a sombre suit of black, and buckled his sword by his side, and put on his riding-boots, and, summoning his servant, bade him saddle his horse. "For," said he to himself, "I will ride into the forest, and there kill myself; and perhaps when I am dead, the princess will forgive, and will believe in my love, and grieve a little for me."

Now, as he went from his chamber to cross the moat by the drawbridge, he encountered Prince Rudolf returning from hawking. They met full in the centre of the bridge, and the prince, seeing Monsieur de Mérosailles dressed all in black from the feather in his cap to his boots, called out mockingly, "Who is to be buried to-day, my lord, and whither do you ride to the funeral? It cannot be yourself, for I see that you are marvellously recovered of your sickness."

"But it is myself," answered the marquis, coming near and speaking low that the servants and the falconers might not overhear. "And I ride, sir, to my own funeral."

"The jest is still afoot, then?" asked the prince. "Yet I do not see my sister at the window to watch you go, and I warrant you have made no way with your wager yet."

"A thousand curses on my wager!" cried the marquis. "Yes, I have made way with the accursed thing, and that is why I now go to my death."

"What, has she kissed you?" cried the prince, with a merry, astonished laugh.

"Yes, sir, she has kissed me once, and therefore I go to die."

"I have heard many a better reason, then," answered the prince.

By now the prince had dismounted, and he stood by Monsieur de Mérosailles in the middle of the bridge, and heard from him how the trick had prospered. At this he was much tickled; and, alas! he was even more diverted when the penitence of the marquis was revealed to him, and was most of all moved to merriment when it appeared that the marquis, having gone too near the candle, had been caught by its flame, and was so terribly singed and scorched that he could not bear to live. And while they talked on the bridge, the princess looked out on them from a lofty narrow window, but neither of them saw her. Now, when the prince had done laughing, he put his arm through his friend's, and bade him not be a fool, but come in and toast the princess's kiss in a draught of wine. "For," he said, "though you will never get the other two, yet it is a brave exploit to have got one."

But the marquis shook his head, and his air was so resolute and so full of sorrow that not only was Rudolf alarmed for his reason, but Princess Osra also, at the window, wondered what ailed him and why he wore such a long face; and she now noticed, that he was dressed all in black, and that his horse waited for him across the bridge.

"Not," said she, "that I care what becomes of the impudent rogue!" Yet she did not leave the window, but watched very intently to see what Monsieur de Mérosailles would do.

For a long while he talked with Rudolf on the bridge, Rudolf seeming more serious than he was wont to be; and at last the marquis bent to kiss the prince's hand, and the prince raised him and kissed him on either cheek; and then the marquis went and mounted his horse and rode off, slowly and unattended, into the glades of the forest of Zenda. But the prince, with a shrug of his shoulders and a frown on his brow, entered under the portcullis, and disappeared from his sister's view.

Upon this the princess, assuming an air of great carelessness, walked down from the room where she was, and found her brother, sitting still in his boots, and drinking wine; and she said:

"Monsieur de Mérosailles has taken his leave, then?"

"Even so, madam," rejoined Rudolf.

Then she broke into a fierce attack on the marquis, and on her brother also; for a man, said she, is known by his friends, and what a man must Rudolf be to have a friend like the Marquis de Mérosailles!

"Most brothers," she said, in fiery temper, "would make him answer for what he has done with his life. But you laugh--nay, I dare say you had a hand in it."

As to this last charge the prince had the discretion to say nothing; he chose rather to answer the first part of what she said, and, shrugging his shoulders again, rejoined, "The fool saves me the trouble, for he has gone off to kill himself."

"To kill himself?" she said, half-incredulous, but also half-believing, because of the marquis's gloomy looks and black clothes.

"To kill himself," repeated Rudolf. "For, in the first place, you are angry, so he cannot live; and in the second, he has behaved like a rogue, so he cannot live; and in the third place, you are so lovely, sister, that he cannot live; and in the first, second, and third places, he is a fool, so he cannot live." And the prince finished his flagon of wine with every sign of ill-humor in his manner.

"He is well dead," she cried.

"Oh, as you please!" said he. "He is not the first brave man who has died on your account;" and he rose and strode out of the room very surlily, for he had a great friendship for Monsieur de Mérosailles, and had no patience with men who let love make dead bones of them.

The Princess Osra, being thus left alone, sat for a little while in deep thought. There rose before her mind the picture of Monsieur de Mérosailles riding mournfully through the gloom of the forest to his death; and although his conduct had been all, and more than all, that she had called it, yet it seemed hard that he should die for it. Moreover, if he now in truth felt what he had before feigned, the present truth was an atonement for the past treachery; and she said to herself that she could not sleep quietly that night if the marquis killed himself in the forest. Presently she wandered slowly up to her chamber, and looked in the mirror, and murmured low, "Poor fellow!" And then with sudden speed she attired herself for riding, and commanded her horse to be saddled, and darted down the stairs and across the bridge, and mounted, and, forbidding any one to accompany her, rode away into the forest, following the tracks of the hoofs of Monsieur de Mérosailles's horse. It was then late afternoon, and the slanting rays of the sun, striking through the tree-trunks, reddened her face as she rode along, spurring her horse and following hard on the track of the forlorn gentleman. But what she intended to do if she came up with him, she did not think.

When she had ridden an hour or more, she saw his horse tethered to a trunk; and there was a ring of trees and bushes near, encircling an open grassy spot. Herself dismounting and fastening her horse by the marquis's horse, she stole up, and saw Monsieur de Mérosailles sitting on the ground, his drawn sword lying beside him; and his back was towards her. She held her breath, and waited for a few moments. Then he took up the sword, and felt the point and also the edge of it, and sighed deeply; and the princess thought that this sorrowful mood became him better than any she had seen him in before. Then he rose to his feet, and took his sword by the blade beneath the hilt, and turned the point of it towards his heart. And Osra, fearing that the deed would be done immediately, called out eagerly, "My lord, my lord!" and Monsieur de Mérosailles turned round with a great start. When he saw her, he stood in astonishment, his hand still holding the blade of the sword. And, standing just on the other side of the trees, she said:

"Is your offence against me to be cured by adding an offence against Heaven and the Church?" And she looked on him with great severity; yet her cheek was flushed, and after a while she did not meet his glance.

"How came you here, madam?" he asked in wonder.

"I heard," she said, "that you meditated this great sin, and I rode after you to forbid it."

"Can you forbid what you cause?" he asked.

"I am not the cause of it," she said, "but your own trickery."

"It is true. I am not worthy to live," cried the marquis, smiting the hilt of his sword to the ground. "I pray you, madam, leave me alone to die, for I cannot tear myself from the world so long as I see your face." And as he spoke he knelt on one knee, as though he were doing homage to her.

The princess caught at a bough of the tree under which she stood, and pulled the bough down so that its leaves half hid her face, and the marquis saw little more than her eyes from among the foliage. And, thus being better able to speak to him, she said, softly:

"And dare you die, unforgiven?"

"I had prayed for forgiveness before you found me, madam," said he.

"Of Heaven, my lord?"

"Of Heaven, madam. For of Heaven I dare to ask it."

The bough swayed up and down; and now Osra's gleaming hair, and now her cheek, and always her eyes, were seen through the leaves. And presently the marquis heard a voice asking:

"Does Heaven forgive unasked?"

"Indeed, no," said he, wondering.

"And," said she, "are we poor mortals kinder than Heaven?"

The marquis rose, and took a step or two towards where the bough swayed up and down, and then knelt again.

"A great sinner," said he, "cannot believe himself forgiven."

"Then he wrongs the power of whom he seeks forgiveness; for forgiveness is divine."

"Then I will ask it, and, if I obtain it, I shall die happy."

Again the bough swayed, and Osra said:

"Nay, if you will die, you may die unforgiven."

Monsieur de Mérosailles, hearing these words, sprang to his feet, and came towards the bough until he was so close that he touched the green leaves; and through them the eyes of Osra gleamed; and the sun's rays struck on her eyes, and they danced in the sun, and her cheeks were reddened by the same or some other cause. And the evening was very still, and there seemed no sounds in the forest.

"I cannot believe that you forgive. The crime is so great," said he.

"It was great; yet I forgive."

"I cannot believe it," said he again, and he looked at the point of his sword, and then he looked through the leaves at the princess.

"I can do no more than say that if you will live, I will forgive. And we will forget."

"By Heaven, no!" he whispered. "If I must forget to be forgiven, then I will remember and be unforgiven."

The faintest laugh reached him from among the foliage.

"Then I will forget, and you shall be forgiven," said she.

The marquis put up his hand and held a leaf aside, and he said again:

"I cannot believe myself forgiven. Is there no other token of forgiveness?"

"Pray, my lord, do not put the leaves aside."

"I still must die, unless I have sure warrant of forgiveness."

"Ah, you try to make me think that!"

"By Heavens, it is true!" and again he pointed his sword at his heart, and he swore on his honor that unless she gave him a token he would still kill himself.

"Oh," said the princess, with great petulance, "I wish I had not come!"

"Then I should have been dead by now--dead, unforgiven!"

"But you will still die!"

"Yes, I must still die, unless--"

"Sheath your sword, my lord. The sun strikes it, and it dazzles my eyes."

"That cannot be; for your eyes are brighter than sun and sword together."

"Then I must shade them with the leaves."

"Yes, shade them with the leaves," he whispered. "Madam, is there no token of forgiveness?"

An absolute silence followed for a little while. Then Osra said:

"Why did you swear on your honor?"

"Because it is an oath that I cannot break."

"Indeed, I wish that I had not come," sighed Princess Osra.

Again came silence. The bough was pressed down for an instant; then it swayed swiftly up again; and its leaves brushed the cheek of Monsieur de Mérosailles. And he laughed loud and joyfully.

"Something touched my cheek," said he.

"It must have been a leaf," said Princess Osra.

"Ah, a leaf!"

"I think so," said Princess Osra.

"Then it was a leaf of the Tree of Life," said Monsieur de Mérosailles.

"I wish some one would set me on my horse," said Osra.

"That you may ride back to the castle--alone?"

"Yes, unless you would relieve my brother's anxiety."

"It would be courteous to do that much," said the Marquis.

So they mounted, and rode back through the forest. In an hour the Princess had come, and in the space of something over two hours they returned; yet during all this time they spoke hardly a word; and although the sun was now set, yet the glow remained on the face and in the eyes of Princess Osra; while Monsieur de Mérosailles, being forgiven, rode with a smile on his lips.

But when they came to the castle, Prince Rudolf ran out to meet them, and he cried almost before he reached them.

"Hasten, hasten! There is not a moment, to lose, if the marquis values life or liberty!" And when he came to them, he told them that a waiting-woman had been false to Monsieur de Mérosailles, and, after taking his money, had hid herself in his chamber, and seen the first kiss that the princess gave him, and having made some pretext to gain a holiday, had gone to the king, who was hunting near, and betrayed the whole matter to him.

"And one of my gentlemen," he continued, "has ridden here to tell me. In an hour the guards will be here, and if the king catches you, my lord, you will hang, as sure as I live."

The princess turned very pale, but Monsieur de Mérosailles said, haughtily, "I ask your pardon, sir, but the king dares not hang me, for I am a gentleman and a subject of the king of France."

"Man, man!" cried Rudolf. "The Lion will hang you first and think of all that afterward! Come, now, it is dusk. You shall dress yourself as my groom, and I will ride to the frontier, and you shall ride behind me, and thus you may get safe away. I cannot have you hanged over such a trifle."

"I would have given my life willingly for what you call a trifle, sir," said the marquis, with a bow to Osra.

"Then have the trifle and life, too," said Rudolf, decisively. "Come in with me, and I will give you your livery."

When the prince and Monsieur de Mérosailles came out again on the drawbridge, the evening had fallen, and it was dark; and their horses stood at the end of the bridge, and by the horses stood the princess.

"Quick!" said she. "For a peasant who came in, bringing a load of wood, saw a troop of men coming over the crown of the hill, and he says they are the king's guard."

"Mount, man!" cried the prince to Monsieur de Mérosailles, who was now dressed as a groom. "Perhaps we can get clear, or perhaps they will not dare to stop me."

But the marquis hesitated a little, for he did not like to run away; and the princess ran a little way forward, and, shading her eyes with her hand, cried, "See there; I see the gleam of steel in the dark. They have reached the top of the hill, and are riding down."

Then Prince Rudolf sprang on his horse, calling again to Monsieur de Mérosailles: "Quick! quick! Your life hangs on it!"

Then at last the marquis, though he was most reluctant to depart, was about to spring on his horse, when the princess turned and glided back swiftly to them. And--let it be remembered that evening had fallen thick and black--she came to her brother, and put out her hand, and grasped his hand, and said:

"My lord, I forgive your wrong, and I thank you for your courtesy, and I wish you farewell."

Prince Rudolf, astonished, gazed at her without speaking. But she, moving very quickly in spite of the darkness, ran to where Monsieur de Mérosailles was about to spring on his horse, and she flung one arm lightly about his neck, and she said:

"Farewell, dear brother--God preserve you! See that no harm comes to my good friend Monsieur de Mérosailles." And she kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she suddenly gave a loud cry of dismay, exclaiming, "Alas, what have I done? Ah, what have I done?" And she hid her face in her two hands.

Prince Rudolf burst into a loud, short laugh, yet he said nothing to his sister, but again urged the marquis to mount his horse. And the marquis, who was in a sad tumult of triumph and of woe, leaped up, and they rode out, and, turning their faces towards the forest, set spurs to their horses, and vanished at breakneck speed into the glades. And no sooner were they gone than the troopers of the king's guard clattered at a canter up to the end of the bridge, where the Princess Osra stood. But when their captain saw the princess, he drew rein.

"What is your errand, sir?" she asked, most coldly and haughtily.

"Madam," said the captain, "we are ordered to bring the Marquis de Mérosailles alive or dead into the king's presence, and we have information that he is in the castle, unless indeed he were one of the horsemen who rode away just now."

"The horsemen you saw were my brother the prince and his groom," said Osra. "But if you think that Monsieur de Mérosailles is in the castle, pray search the castle from keep to cellar; and if you find him, carry him to my father, according to your orders."

Then the troopers dismounted in great haste, and ransacked the castle from keep to cellar; and they found the clothes of the marquis and the white powder with which he had whitened his face, but the marquis they did not find. And the captain came again to the princess, who still stood at the end of the bridge, and said:

"Madam, he is not in the castle."

"Is he not?" said she, and she turned away and, walking to the middle of the bridge, looked down into the water of the moat.

"Was it in truth the prince's groom who rode with him, madam?" asked the captain, following her.

"In truth, sir, it was so dark," answered the princess, "that I could not myself clearly distinguish the man's face."

"One was the prince, for I saw you embrace him, madam."

"You do well to conclude that that was my brother," said Osra, smiling a little.

"And to the other, madam, you gave your hand."

"And now I give it to you," said she, with haughty insolence. "And if to my father's servant, why not to my brother's?"

And she held out her hand that he might kiss it, and turned away from him, and looked down into the water again.

"But we found Monsieur de Mérosailles's clothes in the castle!" persisted the captain.

"He may well have left something of his in the castle," said the princess.

"I will ride after them!" cried the captain.

"I doubt if you will catch them," smiled the princess; for by now the pair had been gone half an hour, and the frontier was but ten miles from the castle, and they could not be overtaken. Yet the captain rode off with his men, and pursued till he met Prince Rudolf returning alone, having seen Monsieur de Mérosailles safe on his way. And Rudolf had paid the sum of a thousand crowns to the marquis, so that the fugitive was well provided for his journey, and, travelling with many relays of horses, made good his escape from the clutches of King Henry.

But the Princess Osra stayed a long time looking down at the water in the moat. And sometimes she sighed, and then again she frowned, and, although nobody was there, and it was very dark into the bargain, more than once she blushed. And at last she turned to go in to the castle. And, as she went, she murmured softly to herself:

"Why I kissed him the first time I know--it was in pity; and why I kissed him the second time I know--it was in forgiveness. But why I kissed him the third time, or what that kiss meant," said Osra, "Heaven knows."

And she went in with a smile on her lips.

MISS TARBELL'S LIFE OF LINCOLN.

The response to our New Life of Lincoln is so extraordinary as to demand something more than mere acknowledgment from us.

Within ten days of the publication of the magazine no less than forty thousand new buyers were added to our list, and at this writing (November 25th) the increase has reached one hundred thousand, making a clear increase of one hundred thousand in three months, and bringing the total edition for the present number up to a quarter of a million.

But even more gratifying have been the strong expressions of approval from many whose intimate knowledge of Lincoln's life enables them to distinguish what is _new_ in this life.

As Mr. Medill says in an editorial in the Chicago "Tribune," "It is not only full of new things, but is so distinct and clear in local color that an interest attaches to it which is not found in other biographies."

And Mr. R.W. Diller, of Springfield, Illinois, who knew Mr. Lincoln intimately for nearly twenty years before his election to the Presidency, writes to us about Miss Tarbell's article: "As far as read she goes to rock-bottom evidence and will beat her Napoleon out of sight."

There are certainly few men more familiar with all that has been written about Lincoln than William H. Lambert, Esq., of Philadelphia, whose collection includes practically every book, pamphlet, or printed document about Lincoln, and who has one of the finest collections of Lincolniana in the world. He writes:

"I have read your first article with intense interest, and I am confident that you will make a most important addition to our knowledge of Lincoln."

But perhaps it is better to print some of the letters we have received commenting on the first article and on the early portrait and other portraits and illustrations.

John T. Morse, Jr., author of the lives of Abraham Lincoln, John Quincy Adams, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. in their "American Statesmen Series," and editor of this series, writes as follows about the early portrait:

6 FAIRCHILD STREET, BOSTON,

_November 2, 1895._

S.S. MCCLURE, ESQ.--_Dear Sir_: I thank you very much for the
artist's proof of the engraving of the earliest picture of
Abraham Lincoln.

I have studied this portrait with very great interest. All
the portraits with which we are familiar show us the man _as
made_; this shows us the man _in the_ _making_; and I think
every one will admit that the making of Abraham Lincoln
presents a more singular, puzzling, interesting study than the
making of any other man known in human history.

I have shown it to several persons, without telling them who
it was. Some say, a poet; others, a philosopher, a thinker,
like Emerson. These comments also are interesting, for Lincoln
had the raw material of both these characters very largely in
his composition, though political and practical problems
so over-laid them that they show only faintly in his later
portraits. This picture, therefore, is valuable evidence as to
his natural traits.

Was it not taken at an earlier date than you indicate as
probable in your letter? I should think that it must have
been.

I am very sincerely yours,

JOHN T. MORSE, JR.

Dr. Hale also draws attention to the resemblance of the early portrait to Emerson:

ROXBURY, MASSACHUSETTS,

_October 28, 1895._

_My dear Mr. McClure_:--I think you will be interested to know
that in showing the early portrait of Lincoln to two young
people of intelligence, each of them asked if it were not a
portrait of Waldo Emerson. If you will compare the likeness
with that of Emerson in Appleton's "Cyclopedia of Biography,"
I think you will like to print copies of the two likenesses
side by side.

Yours truly,

EDWARD E. HALE.

Mr. T.H. Bartlett, the eminent sculptor, who has for many years collected portraits of Lincoln, and has made a scientific study of Lincoln's physiognomy, contributes this:

The first interest of the early portrait to me is that it
shows Lincoln, even at that age, as a _new man_. It may to
many suggest certain other heads, but a short study of it
establishes its distinctive originality in every respect.
It's priceless, every way, and copies of it ought to be in the
gladsome possession of every lover of Lincoln. Handsome is
not enough--it's great--not only of a great man, but the first
picture representing the only new physiognomy of which we
have any correct knowledge contributed by the New World to the
ethnographic consideration of mankind.

Very sincerely,

T.H. BARTLETT.

An eminent member of the Illinois bar, one who has been closely identified with the legal history of Illinois for nearly sixty years, and who is perhaps the best living authority on the history of the State, writes:

That portion of the biography of Mr. Lincoln that appears in
the November number of McCLURE'S MAGAZINE I have read with
very great interest. It contains much that has not been
printed in any other life of Lincoln. Especially interesting
is the account given of pioneer life of that people among whom
Mr. Lincoln had his birth and his early education. It was a
strange and singular people, and their history abounds in
much that is akin to romance and peculiar to a life in the
wilderness. It was a life that had a wonderful attractiveness
for all that loved an adventurous life. The story of their
lives in the wilderness has a charm that nothing else in
Western history possesses. It is to be regretted that there
are writers that represent the early pioneers of the West to
have been an ignorant and rude people. Nothing can be further
from the truth. Undoubtedly there were some dull persons among
them. There are in all communities. But a vast majority of the
early pioneers of the West were of average intelligence
with the people they left back in the States from which
they emigrated. And why should they not have been? They were
educated among them, and had all the advantages of those by
whom they were surrounded. But in some respects they were much
above the average of those among whom they dwelt in the older
communities east of the Alleghany Mountains. The country
into which they were about to go was known to be crowded
with dangers. It was a wilderness, full of savage beasts and
inhabited by still more savage men--the Indians. It is evident
that but few other than the brave and most daring, would
venture upon a life in such a wilderness. The timid and less
resolute remained in the security of an older civilization.

The lives of these early pioneers abounded in brave deeds,
and were often full of startling adventures. The women of that
period were as brave and heroic as were the men--if not more
so. It is doubtless true Mr. Lincoln's mother was one of that
splendid type of heroic pioneer women. He was brave and good
because his mother was brave and good. She has since become
distinguished among American women because her child, born in
a lowly cabin in the midst of a wild Western forest, has since
been recognized as the greatest man of the century--if not of
all centuries. It was fortunate for our common country that
Mr. Lincoln was born among that pioneer people and had his
early education among them. It was a simple school, and the
course of studies limited; but the lessons he learned in that
school in the forest were grand and good. Everything around
and about him was just as it came from the hands of the
Creator. It was good, and it was beautiful. It developed
both the head and the heart. It produced the best type of
manhood--both physical and mental. It was in that school he
learned lessons of heroism, courage, and of daring for the
right. It was there he learned lessons of patriotism in its
highest and best sense; and it was there he learned to love
his fellow-man. It was in the practice of those lessons his
life became such a benediction to the American nation.

The story of that people among whom Mr. Lincoln spent his
early life will always have a fascination for the American
people; and it is a matter of congratulation so much of it has
been gathered up and put into form to be preserved.

The portraits the work contains give a very good idea of that
pioneer race of men and women. The one given of Mr. Lincoln's
step-mother is a splendid type of a pioneer woman. A touching
contribution are the brief lines of which a facsimile is
printed:

"Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
God knows When."

These words--simple as they are--will touch the heart of the
American people through all the years of our national history.
It was "his hand and pen" that wrote many beautiful thoughts.
It was his "hand and pen" that wrote those kindest of all
words, "With malice towards none, with charity for all." It
was his "hand and pen" that traced the lines of that wonderful
Gettysburg speech; and it was his "hand and pen" that wrote
the famous proclamation that gave liberty to a race of slaves.
It was then God knew he was "good."

If the remainder of the work shall be of the same character as
that now printed, it will be both an instructive and valuable
contribution to American biography.

There is so much in Mr. Medill's editorial in the Chicago "Tribune," and he is entitled to speak with such authority, that we print it complete herewith.

Mr. Medill says:

THE NEW LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

It is apparent at the very outset that the new "Life of
Abraham Lincoln," edited by Miss Ida M. Tarbell, the first
installment of which appears in McCLURE'S MAGAZINE for
the current month, will be one of the most important and
interesting contributions yet made to Lincoln literature, as
it will contain much matter hitherto unpublished, and will be
enriched with a large number of new illustrations. It will be
a study of Abraham Lincoln as a man, and thus will naturally
commend itself to the people.

The first installment covers about the first twenty-one years
of Lincoln's life, which were spent in Kentucky and Indiana.
The story is told very briefly, in simple, easy style, and
abounds with reminiscences secured from his contemporaries.
It is not only full of new things, but it is so distinct and
clear in local color that an interest attaches to it which is
not found in other biographies. A large part of this credit
must be awarded not alone to the text and to its careful
editing, but also to the numerous pictures which upon every
page illustrate the context and give the scenes of the
story. It is particularly rich in portraits. Among these are
portraits from an ambrotype taken at Macomb, Illinois, in
1858, during his debate with Douglas, the dress being the
same as that in which Lincoln made his famous canvass for
the Senate; a second from a photograph taken at Hannibal,
Missouri, in 1858; a third from an ambrotype taken at Urbana,
Illinois, in 1857; and a fourth from an ambrotype taken in a
linen coat at Beardstown, Illinois.

The picture, however, which will attract the greatest interest
is the frontispiece, from a daguerreotype which his son,
Robert Lincoln, thinks was taken when his father was
about forty years old. In this picture, which bears little
resemblance to any other known portraits, he is dressed with
scrupulous care. His hair is combed and brushed down with
something like youthful vanity, and he has a smooth, bright,
rather handsome face, and without sunken cheeks, strikingly
resembling in contour and the shape of the head some of the
early portraits of Ralph Waldo Emerson. It looks, however, as
if it had been taken at an earlier age than forty. As the only
portrait of Lincoln with a comparatively young face it will
be treasured by all his admirers, and his son has conferred
a distinct benefit by his courtesy in allowing it to be
reproduced.

There are numerous other portraits, among them those of the
Rev. Jesse Head, who married Lincoln's father and mother; of
Austin Gollaher, who was a boy friend of Lincoln in Kentucky,
and the only one now living; of his step-mother, Sarah Bush
Lincoln; of Josiah Crawford, whom Lincoln served in Indiana
as "hired boy;" of the well-known Dennis Hanks, cousin of
Lincoln's mother; of John Hanks, also a cousin; of Judge John
Pitcher, who assisted Lincoln in his earliest studies; and of
Joseph Gentry, the only boy associate of Lincoln in Indiana
now living. These portraits, in addition to the numerous views
of scenes connected with Lincoln's boyhood, add greatly to
the interest of the text. Mr. McClure, the proprietor of the
magazine, is certainly to be congratulated upon the successful
manner in which he has launched the opening chapters of the
new "Life of Lincoln." The remaining ones, running a whole
year, will be awaited with keen interest. It is said that
Miss Tarbell has found and obtained a shorthand report of his
unpublished but famous speech delivered at Bloomington, May
29, 1856, before the first Republican State convention ever
held in Illinois. This is a great find and a very important
addition to his published speeches. Many of those who heard
it have always claimed that it was the most eloquent speech he
ever made.

In an editorial in the "Standard-Union" of Brooklyn, Mr. Murat Halstead expresses the general feeling of all who knew Lincoln:

The magazine gives an admirable engraving of this portrait
as the frontispiece, as "The earliest portrait of Abraham
Lincoln, from a daguerreotype taken when Lincoln was about
forty; owned by his son, the Hon. Robert T. Lincoln, through
whose courtesy it is here reproduced for the first time."
This is a very modest statement, considering the priceless
discovery it announces. The portrait does not show a man
"about forty" years old in appearance. "About" thirty would be
the general verdict, if it were not that the daguerreotype
was unknown when Lincoln was of that age. It does not seem,
however, that he could have been more than thirty-five, and
for that age the youthfulness of the portrait is wonderful.
This is a new Lincoln, and far more attractive, in a sense,
than anything the public has possessed. This is the portrait
of a remarkably handsome man.... The head is magnificent,
the eyes deep and generous, the mouth sensitive, the whole
expression something delicate, tender, pathetic, poetic. This
was the young man with whom the phantoms of romance dallied,
the young man who recited poems and was fanciful and
speculative, and in love and despair, but upon whose brow
there already gleamed the illumination of intellect, the
inspiration of patriotism. There were vast possibilities in
this young man's face. He could have gone anywhere and done
anything. He might have been a military chieftain, a novelist,
a poet, a philosopher, ah! a hero, a martyr--and, yes, this
young man might have been--he even was Abraham Lincoln! This
was he with the world before him. It is good fortune to have
the magical revelation of the youth of the man the world
venerates. This look into his eyes, into his soul--not before
he knew sorrow, but long before the world knew him--and to
feel that it is worthy to be what it is, and that we are
better acquainted with him and love him the more, is something
beyond price.

From a photograph by Brady, taken in Washington.]

From a photograph owned by Mr. George Schneider of Chicago, Illinois, former editor of the "Staats Zeitung," the most influential anti-slavery German newspaper of the West. Mr. Schneider first met Mr. Lincoln in 1853, in Springfield. "He was already a man necessary to know," says Mr. Schneider. In 1854 Mr. Lincoln was in Chicago, and Mr. Isaac N. Arnold, a prominent lawyer and politician of Illinois, invited Mr. Schneider to dine with Mr. Lincoln. After dinner, as the gentlemen were going down town, they stopped at an itinerant photograph gallery, and Mr. Lincoln had the above picture taken for Mr. Schneider. The newspaper he holds in his hands is the "Press and Tribune." The picture has never before been reproduced.]