Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 205, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 August 1915 — Page 2

HIS LOVE STORY

By MARIE VAN VORST

VALTERS^ ca°r*/cwr fir the _ _

SYNOPSIS. " 18" 1 L« Comte de Sabron, captain of French cavalry takes to tils quarters to raise by hand a motherless Irish terrier pup, and names It Pitchouna He dines with the Marquise d’Escllrnac and meets Miss Julia Redmond; American heiress He Is ordered to Alerters but la not allowed to take servants or dogs. Mias Redmond takes care of Pltchoune, who, longing for his master, runs away from her. Tbs marquise plana to marry Julia to the Due de Tremont. Pltchoune follows Sabron to Alglera. dog and master meet, and Sabron ■eta permission to keep his dog with him. The Due de Tremont finds the American helrena capricious. Sabron, wounded In an engagement, falls into the dry bed of a river and Is watched over by Pltchoune. After a horrible night and day Pltchoune leaves him. Tremont takes Julia and the marquise to Algiers In his yacht but has doubts about Julia's Red Cross mission. After long search Julia rets trace of Babron’a whereabouts. Julia for the moment turns matchmaker In behalf of Tremont. Ham met Abou tells the Marquise where he thinks Sabron may be found. Tremont decides to go with Hammet Abou to find Sabron. Pltchoune finds a village, twelve hours Journey away, and somehow makes Fatou Ann! understand hla master's desperate plight. Sabron Is rescued by the village men but grows Weaker without proper care. CHAPTER XXIII. Two Love Stories. If It had not been for her absorbing thought of Sabron, Jujla would have raveled In the deaert and the new experiences. As it was, its charm and and the fact that he traveled over it helped her to endure the Interval. In the deep impenetrable silence she seemed to bear her future speak to her. She believed that it would either be a wonderfully happy one, or a hopelessly withered life. "Julia, I cannot ride any farther!” exclaimed the comtesse. She was an excellent horsewoman and had ridden all her life, but her riding of late had consisted of a carter in the Bols de Boulogne at noon, and it was sometimes hard to follow Julia’s tireless gallops toward an everdisappearing goal. "Forgiv" me,” said Miss Redmond, and brought her horse up to her friend’s side. It was the cool of the day, of the fourteenth day since Tremont had left Algiers and the seventh’ day of Julia’s excursion. A fresh wind blew from the west, lifting their veils from their helmets and bringing the fragrance of the mimosa Into whose scanty forest they had ridden. The sky paled toward sunset, and the evening star, second In glory only to the moon, hung over the west. Although both women knew perfectly well the reason for this excursion and Its importance, not one word had been spoken between them of Sabron and Tremont other than a natural interest and anxiety. They might have been two hospital nurses awaiting their patients. They halted their horses, looking over toward the western horixon and its mystery. “The star shines over their caravan,” mused Madame de la Maine (Julia had not thought Therese poetical), “as though to lead them home.”. ~ —- Madame de la Maine turned her face and Julia saw tears in her eyes. The Frenchwoman’s control was usually perfect, she treated most things with 1 mocking gayety. The bright softness of her eyes touched Julia. “Therese!” exclaimed the American girt. “It la only fourteen days!” Madame de la Maine laughed. There was a break In her voice. ‘‘Only fourteen days,” she repeated, “and any one of those days may mean death!” She threw back her head, touched her stallion, and flew away like light, and it was Julia whß first drew rein. "Therese! Therese! We cannot go any farther!" “Lady!” said Asrael. He drew his big black horse up beside them. "We must go back to the tents.” Madame de la Maine pointed with her whip toward the horizon. “It is cruel! It ever recedes!” • •••••• "Tell me, Julia, of Monsieur de Sabron,” asked Madame de la Maine abruptly. ‘There Is nothing to tell, Therese.” “You don’t trust me?” “Do you think that, really?” In the tent where Azrael served them their meal, under the ceiling of Turkish red with Its Arabic characters in clear white, Julia and Madame de la Maine sat while their coffee was served them by a Syrian servant. "A girl does not come into the Sahara and watch like a sentinel, does not suffer as you have suffered, ma chore, without there being something to tell ” “It Is true,” said Miss Redmond, “and would you be with me, Therese, if 1 did not trust you? And what do you want me to tell?” she added naively. » The comtesse laughed. ! “Voui etes charmante, Julia!” 1 T met Monsieur de Sabron," said Julia slowly, “not many months ago in Tarascon. I saw him several times, and then he went away” “And then?” urged Madame de la Maine eagerly. “He left hfs little dog. Pltchoune, with end Pltchoune ran after his master, ttfTffarseilles, flinging himself into the water, and was rescued by

the sailors. I wrote about it to Monsieur de Sabron, and he answered me from the desert, the night before he went Into battle.’’ “And that’s all?” urged Madame de la Maine. “That’s all,” said Mias Redmond. She drank her coffee. “You tell a love story very badly, ma chere.” “Is It a lote story?” “Have you come to Africa for charity? Voyons!” Julia was silent. A great reserve seemed to seize her heart,, to stifle her as the poverty of her love story struck her. She sat turning her cof-fee-spoon between her fingers, her eyes downcast. She had very little to tell. She might never have any more to tell. Yet this was her love story. But the presence of Sabron was so real, and she saw his eyes clearly looking upon her as she had seen them often; heard the sound' of his voice that meant but one thing—and the words of his letter came back to her. She remembered her letter to him, rescued from the field where he had fallen. She raised her eyes to the Comtesse de la Maine, and there was an appeal in them. The Frenchwoman leaned over and kissed Julia. She asked nothing more. She had not learned her lessons in discretion to no purpose. At night they sat out in the moonlight, white as day, and the radiance over the sands was like the snowflowers. Wrapped in their warm coverings, Julia and Therese de la Maine lay on the rugs before the door of their tent, and above their heads shone the stars so low that it seemed as though their hands could snatch them from the sky. At a little distance their servants sat around the dying fire, and there came to them the plaintive song of Azrael, as he led their singing: And who can give again the love of yesterday? . , Can a whirlwind replace the sand after it Is scattered? , . . What can heal the heart that Allah has smitten? Can the mirage form again when there are no eyes to see? “1 was married," said Madame de la Maine, “when I was sixteen.” Julia drew a little nearer and smiled to herself in the shadow. This would be a real love story. “I had just come out of the convent We lived in an old 'chateau, older than the history of your country, ma chere, and I had no dot Robert de Tremont and I used to play together in the allees of the park, on the terrace. When his mother brought him over when she called on my grandmother, he teased me horribly because the weeds grew between the

At Night They Sat Out in the Moonlight. stones of our terrace. He was very rude. “Throughout our childhood, until I was sixteen, we teased each other and fought and quarreled.” “This is not a love-affair, Therese," said Miss Redmond. “There are all kinds, ma chere, as there are all temperaments,” said Madame de la Maine. “At Assumption —that is our great feast, Julia — the Feast of Mary—it comes in August—at Assumption, Monsieur de la Maine came to talk with my grandmother. He was forty years old, and bald —Bob and I made fun of his few hairs, like the children in the Holy Bible.” Julia put out her hand and took the hand of Madame de la Maine gently. She was getting so far from a love affair. “I married Monsieur de la Maine in six weeks,” said Therese. “Oh,” breathed Miss Redmond, "horrible!” Madame de la Maine pressed Julia’s hand. "When it was decided between my grandmother and the comte, I escaped at night, after they thought I had gone

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, INP.

to be®, and 1 **nt flown to tho loww terrace wheie the weeds grow In plenty, and told Robert Somehow,’ I did not expect him to make fun, although we always joked about everything until this night. It waa after nine o’clock.” The comtesse swept one hand toward the desert ”A moon like this—only not like this —ma chere. There was never hut that moon to me for many years. “I thought at first that Boh would kill me —he grew so white and terrible. He seemed suddenly to have aged ten years. 1 will never forget his cry as it rang out In the night ‘You will marry that old man when we love each other?’ I had never known It until then. “We were only children, but he grew suddenly old. I knew It then,” said Madame de la Maine intensely, “I knew it then.” She waited for a long time. Over the face of the desert there seemed to be nothing but one veil of light The silence grew so intense, so deep; the Arabs had stopped singing, but the heart fairly echoed, and Julia grew meditative —before her eyes the caravan she waited for seemed to come out of the moonlit mist, rocking, rocking—the camels and the huddled figures of the riders, their shadows cast upon the Band. And now Tremont would be forever changed in her mind. A man who had suffered from his youth, a warm-heart-ed boy, defrauded of his early love. It seemed to her that he waa a charming figure to lead Sabron. “Therese,” she murmured, “won’t you tell me?” “They thought I had gone to bed,” said the Comtesse de la Maine, “and I went back to my room by a little staircase, seldom used, and I found myself alone, and I knew what life was and what it meant to be poor." “But,” interrupted Julia, horrified, “girls are not sold in the twentieth century.” “They are sometimes in France, my dear. Robert was only seventeen. His father laughed at him, threatened to send him to South America. We were victims.” “It was the harvest moon,” continued Madame de la Maine gently, “and it shone on us every night until my wedding day. Then the duke kept his threat and sent Robert out of France. He continued his studies in England and went into the army of Africa.” There was a silence again. “I did not see him until last year,” said Madame de la Maine, “after my husband died.” CHAPTER XXIV. The Meeting. Under the sun, under the starry nights Tremont, with his burden, journeyed toward the north. The halts were distasteful to him, and although he was forced to rest he would rather have been cursed with sleeplessness and have journeyed on and on. He rode his camel like a Bedouin; he grew brown like the Bedouins and under the hot breezes, swaying on his desert ship, he sank into dreamy, moody and melancholy reveries, like the wandering men of the Sahara, and felt himself part of the desolation, as they were. “What will be, will be!” Hammet Abou said to him a hundred times, and Tremont wondered: “Will Charles live to see Algiers?” Sabron journeyed in a litter carried between six mules, and they traveled slowly, slowly. Tremont rode by the sick man’s side day after day. Not once did the soldier for any length of time regain his reason. He would past from coma to delirium, and many times Tremont thought he had ceased to breathe. Slender, emaciated under hiß covers, Sabron lay like the image of a soldier in wax—a wounded man carried as a votive offering to the altars of desert warfare. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Things That Have Been Condemned.

If we banished from our tables all the commodities which like potatoes —have been condemned in print our diet would be decidedly monotonous. “Food faddists are most aggressive persons,” Henry Labouchere once complained. “In my time I have known them preach that we should give up meat, tobacco, alcohol, soup, starch (including bread and potatoes), salt, tomatoes, bananas, strawberries and bath buns. I have also witnessed movements for giving up boots, waistcoats, hats, overcoats, carpets, feather beds, spring mattresses, cold baths, linen clothes, woolen clothes, sleeping more than six hours, sleeping less than nine hours and lighting fires at the bottom.”

Some Lost Motion.

A Philadelphia mathematician ha< figured It out that the telephone companies lose 125 hours’ work every daj through the use of the word “please’ by all operators and patrons. Anothei has discovered that the froth on th* beer pays the freight. But as yet nc one has estimated the total horse power wasted In swallowing cigarette smoke and forcing it through the nose instead of blowing it from the month —Newark News.

Scandinavian Housekeeping.

In Scandinavia the peasant worn en who worked all day in the fields, have had their fireless methods oi cooking for a long time. While breakfast was cooking, the -pot containing the stew for dinner was brought tc a boil then placed inside a secon* pot, and the whole snngly ensconce* between the feather beds, still warn from the night’s occupancy. Some o these women: had a loosened hearth stone and a hole beneath.

TAKING ‘N’ FROM DAMN

DOES NOT TAKE THE CURSE OFF BY ANY MEANS. When One Doesn't Care a— Wall, Even “Tinker’s Dam” Is Bad Language to Bay the Bast About It. • - ■ - A contributor to the Sun grieve* over the ignorance of those who assume that “tinker’s dam” is a “profane expression.” ▲ tinker’s dam, says he, waa a chunk of dough or batter used before the days of muriatic acid to keep the solder from spreading; and as the solder commonly did spread nevertheless, the tinker’s dam was as nearly worthless as the common expression of disesteem for it Implies. He differentiates it from the common or garden damn and says: “There is no profanity about it” But not to care a tinker’s dam is just as profane as not to care a maverick damn, unbranded with ownership by tinkers or others. Taking the “n” out of damn does not take the curse oft. If it is profane not to care a damn, It is just as profane not to care A whiffer, a Jabberwock, a goop, or any other illegitimate and unsanctioned word. Whep one stentoriously enun : dates his refusal to appraise the article under discussion at the value of a damn, he is not swearing or cursing; he is literally using bad language, for, in the sense he means, there is no such noun as damn. We know what & tinker’s dam is, but wrhat is a damn? When one says he does not care a whoop, he is far more definite, for there is such a thing as a whoop. Whence arose the idea that not caring a damn was vbeing profane, and why do persons wm^ o not care one plume themselves on their devilishness? It is not profane, but it has the Bound of being profane, and that is all that is needed. An individual who would not for the world have used blasphemous language used to relieve his feelings by pronouncing the name of one of Wagner’s operas in a tone that caused neighboring windows to fall In, and “Gotterdammerung” gave him as much satisfaction as if he had violated a commandment. And who was the man who always swore by Charles G. D. Roberts and Josephine Dodge Daskam because they sounded so profane? There is an excellent Methodist in this town who severely reprehends profanity whenever he hears It, but who produces all the effect of shocking blasphemy by the imbittered emphasis he lays on the exclamation, “For government’s sake!” Colonel Roosevelt plumes himself on his abstinence from profanity, but none of the unregenerate ever got such satisfaction out of a real cuss word as he does out of “By Godfrey! No, tinker’s dam belongs In the com-fort-giving galaxy of profane refuges for the emotions; and that is the worst you can say of the other damn. —New York Times.

Mysterious Zones of Silence.

A meteorologist of Zurish, Dr. A. de Quervan, directs attention to a newtheory which he calls a zone of silence. He says that strong noises like explosions or the sound of cannons, while heard in a normal way in their immediate neighborhood, afenot heard in a distant zone even when most intense. It Is now known as a historical fact that Frederick the Great on August 17, 1760, won the battle of Liegnitz because the Austrian generals Dann and Lasen asserted that they had not heard the sound of cannons. It was supposed at that time that the statement of the Austrian commanders was an untruth, but it is now believed that a zone of silence existed. Similar phenomena have been observed ly. In 1908, when the Jungfrau railroad was being built in Switzerland, a fearful detonation took place, caused by the explosion of 25,000 kilograms of dynamite. The noise was heard at a distance of 30 kilometers, but not at 140 kilometers. Strange to say, howBver, the noise was heard 50 kilometers from the last named zone.

The Bible in Russia.

The holy synod at Petrograd has been busily engaged in the work of producing popular editions of the Bible. These are being widely distributed by the Orthodox church among soldiers on the battle field as well as to the sick and wounded. Various Russian Red Cross aid associations are including Bibles and Testaments in their parcels of “comforts” for troops at the front, and as the available stock of the British and Foreign Bible society has became exhausted, the holy synod is undertaking the work of printing fresh editions. Should this wave of enthusiasm -or the propagation of the Holy Scriptures prove more than a passing phase we may look forward to a revival of intelligent religious instruction in Russia.

Novel Porch Light.

A porch lamp of a new type, just placed on the market, is made to be installed inside the building so that it is not only protected from the weather, but serves to illuminate the hall or front room as well as the porch. The lamp Is mounted inside the wall adjacent to the porch. Part of the light is diffused through the room, while a part of the horizontal rays are transmitted through a tube to a globe mounted on the outside of the Vail, where, with the aid of a reflector, jit ij uniformly distributed over th« porch.—Popular Mechanics. _

RAVENNA, A DYING CITY

LOVERS of the moat beautiful things have had one great piece of good fortune in that Ravenna i does not lie on the route of the mass of ordinary tourists through Italy. Honeymooning couples avoid it; so do the personally conducted flocks. It is, moreover, externally a dull town, and its streets and near surroundings are flat and uninteresting, writes Sir Martin Conway in Country Life. A'few miles away, indeed, there is the beautiful pine forest sung by Dante, a wild stretch of broken ground along the Adriatic coast, with charming- glades and hollows, bushy below and overarched by rugged and pathetically dignified trees, where those who do not suffer from fear of snakes can wander in romantic surroundings. The neighborhood of Ravenna is, moreover, fever-stricken. I shall never forget a visit paid to the church of Santa Maria in Porto Fuori. It stands in a hamlet of decaying houses, itself also far gone in decay —the pavement broken, plaster falling from the walls, and all the usual signs of dilapidation. A woman who brought the keys of the church told us how the few peasants about were all broken down with fever, how the priest was away as much as possible, how the folk were mostly atheistie and anarchistic, and how only the very minimum of work was done by anyone about There were reeking quagmires and damp places and stagnant pools on all sides, and the old church itself seemed to be sinking into the swamp. Thus, in fact, Ravenna actually is sinking. It is not merely that the level of the ground of the town is rising, as ground levels in towns normally rise; but the buildings sink into the soft alluvial Boil by little and little, and have thus sunk from the day they were built. The process is a very slow one, but likewise very sure, and it cannot be stayed. Already in the wet season of the year the naves of the old churches stand a foot or two deep in water, and that although the floor level has been raised as much as three or four feet, so that the bases of the columns are buried. The older the church the deeper it lies in the ground. Some have been

dog out and surrounded by a kind of walled moat; but all this only postpones the inevitable ultimate end. Ravenna is, in fact, a dying.city, and haa been dying slowly ever since the Lombards came and drove out the exarchs of the emperor of Byzantium a century or so before Charlemagne liberated the pope from Lombard oppression. Once Actually on the Coast. At an earlier time Ravenna was actually on the coast. The Roman port was only a mile or two away, a relatively shallow port in the midst of lagoons, which were continually being silted up. That port, however, was the best then available for ships of war, and its site, now miles inland, still bears its ancient name, Classe. Even today steamers of inconsiderable size enter Ravenna, and a few, a very few, of my readers may have landed there on their way from Dalmatia back into Italy; but it is only along dredged channels and canals that Ravenna can thus be reached. In late Roman days Classe was a very important place, the fleet being a chief defense of Italy. Descriptions of Classe tell Us of its great basins and quays, its noble streets and houses, its many churches and monasteries. We likewise learn from them of the noble avenue of stately buildings which led thence to Ravenna itself, where was the splendid palace of the prince and such numbers of churches and public buildings as almost to seem incredible. Today, of Classe and the great avenue of buildings, not one stone remains upon | another except in the case of the sin- ]

gle church which is famous under th# name of St. Appollinare in Classe. The site of most vanished cities is marked by ruined walls or at least mounds. Of Classe there Is not a wall nor a hillock. All that was not overthrown and carried away haß sunk into the soil, and only by excavation can here and there some fragment of foundation be revealed. The surviving churches within the city of Ravenna itself are numerous, and many more than the present population requires. Yet they are only a few compared with the number that once existed* Mausoleum of Galla PlacldlaThe earliest building of interest still existing in Ravenna is the small but most attractive little mausoleum of Galla Placidia. It attempted no rivalry with the mausolea of the great Roman Imperial days, such as that of Trajan or even the Constantinian Santa Costanza. It is only a little cruciform structure of brick, surmounted over the crossing by a tiny dome; but the three sarcophagi that fill Its arms are stately, and the lining of gold ground mosaic that covers its lunettes and vaults glows with all the splendor which ancient artists knew so well how to attain; while the revetment below them, admirably restored, and the marble pavement and thin alabaster window slabs (likewise restorations), complete an interior decoration which, for perfect taste, subdued magnificence, and simple dignity could scarcely be surpassed. St. Appollinare in Claßse I suppose is sometimes used for worship, but it wears a look of tidy abandonment. There are no houses near to supply worshippers, and only the visitor breaks the solitude; but it is a peopled solitude all the same, a solitude vocal with memories of great men and great doings long ago. The spacious marble floor is divided by the two great ranges of columns, noble antique monoliths of veined marble standing upon sculptured bases which are not buried. The simple apse, enriched with mosaic, is all the more splendid in effect because so much else of the walls is bare. An ancient altar -of small dimensions is in the midst of the nave. Another, surmounted by a remarkable ciborium of

sculptured marble on spirally fluted columns, fills the east corper of the north aisle. Tomb of the Great Ostrogoth. One other monument of great importance cannot be passed over without a brief mention. This Is the mausoleum of Theodoric himself. It is not large, a little larger than Oalla Placidia’s, but it is imposing by the strength of its massive stone construction. Polygonal in plan, twostoried, with external staircases leading to a gallery round the empty upper chamber —that is all. For roof it Is covered by one huge hollowed block of stone, like an inverted saucer in. form, with an external protuberance in the center, on which a bronze ornament once stood. The bronze doors, the bronze parapet of the gallery, andi perhaps other ornaments, were carried away by Charlemagne and built into his palatine chape! at Aix-la-Chapelle, where some of them can still be seem Nothing of Theodoric himself remains in his grave. His body was thrown out when orthodoxy supplanted. Arianiam. The mausoleum is now amere empty shell, well protected by a salaried guardian, who in the hot season, when I was last there, accompanied me with a broom to sweep away thp harmless snakes which are now the sole occupants of the pile. _ Enemies could throw out-Tbeodorlc's bones, but his memory they could not obliterate—the memory of one of the few really great men who snatched from falling Rome the torch of civilization she had borne so high, and. availed for a short span to keep it, burning. - ••• :