Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 July 1895 — A Thrilling Tale. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Thrilling Tale.

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IT almost seemed as If, by some strange Irony of nature, the sexes had been reversed. The girl who was sculling the skiff uy stream with long, powerful strokes was a glorious specimen of modern womanhood, tall, broad-shouldered, overflowing with health and strength. A fresh color was in her cheeks an'd a brightness In her eye, as if she revelled In the mere bodily exercise. Facing her, with his brown hands grusping the yoke lines, was a thin, prematurely aged man, his hair slightly tinged with gray, his face lean almost to the point of emacation. He was not pf large build, but he looked smaller than be really was by force of contrast with the fresh and somewhat exuberant beauty of his companion. It required more than common observation to discover the gleam hidden in the depths of 1 his sleepy brown eyes and the evidences of a sinewy strength in the lines »f his well-knit though spare form. She looked at him with a sort of pity as she spoke; apparently in reply to a question. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I—l never expected this. I thought we were to be Just friends and nothing more. I had no idea that you were thinking of me— In that way.” He did not speak, but the wistful look In his brown eyes caused her to continue. “You know I like you, that I trust you as I trust no one else. But that Is not love. It would be unfair to both of us for me to pretend that I do. or could, love you—as you w'ould expect to be loved. There is no one else, do not think that But all the same I can give you no hope.” "But If there is no one else, surely I may hope.” “No, please no. You hurt me. nnd you delude yourself when you suggest It And I do so want you to remain my friend. I wish, oh Ido wish I could love you. But I cannot, I can only wait.”

He looked at her questioningly. “Don’t you know?” she asked. “It Is really not my fault I can’t help It. Why should I have made an Ideal for myself? Why should I always worship and wait for a hero?”—she looked almost fierce as she asked the question “And he never comes! Why weren’t you born a hero, Mr. Dare?” The man did not seem to perceive the humor of the situation. "Heroes,” be replied gravely, “are somewhat rare In these days. Isn’t your Idea rather Impossible?” "No, ten thousand times no,” was heir vehement cry. "Ton* a soldier, say that Haren’t you seen any acts of heroism? Why, quite recently, it must hay* been while you were out at the Caps, a man performed a feat that was •qnal to any that history tells of. You must hare heard of It"

He smiled slightly. “I have seen many brave deeds,” he said with great gentleness, “but we don’t call the men who do them heroes.” The girl looked at him almost scornfully. “How ungenerous!” she exclaimed with a flashing eye. “Surely you can admire that which is beyond your own power to perform. But I was about to tell you of my hero. There was only a brief notice in the papers, but it was a perfect volume to me. It happened during a skirmish with the Matabele. Our men were hopelessly outnumbered. They were a scouting party, two officers and a handful of men, and they were surrounded by a horde of howling fiends. But they fought for dear life and kept the Matabele at bay for nearly an hour, killing three of the savages for every white man who fell. Just us a rescue party, attracted by the firing, came up, one of the officers became separated from the rest He was halfblinded, half-dazed and could not get back, and the savages, seeing that seized him and tried to carry him off for torture. Then, for the first time, his brother officer saw his peril. Without waiting to gather his men together, he rushed along on the enemy, a dozen or more of whom had crowded round the captured man. The fight was terrible. Ho was covered with wounds, bleeding, dizzy, engaged, in a hopeless struggle with overwhelming odds. They say he killed ten of the savages with his sword and pistol Then, as the rest of his men came up, he sank, almost dying, over the body of the friend he had come to. save." Dare gazed with admiration on the girl’s flushed, animated face. But he showed little enthusiasm. “Did he die?” he asked. “1 uon’t know,” she answered. “I think not But can’t you see any heroism in that? Was It simply what you call a brave deed? Oh,” she went on, not waiting for an answer, “that is what I consider a hero should do. What a man ne must have been!” Dare was about to speak, but thought better of it

“I can imagine him,” she continued, "a tall, dark man—he must have been dark— a perfect giant in strength, cutting and slashing with his long sword at the shields and limbs of the savages, his blue eyes flashing fire as he thrust and parried, dealing deathblow after deathblow, and always covering the nrnfltmtft hAdy as hia friend ” She looked thoughtfully at her companion, who still watched her with admiration struggling against the natural dreaminess of his brown eyes. He became conscious that she was measuring up his Inches. “That is the sort of man I am waiting for,” she went on, “a hero, a man among men, who has, by force of will and sheer strength, won distinction. Oh, why weren’t you born to do heroic deeds like that man so that my heart would acknowledge you its master, instead of’—she paused, for she was about to say something too personal. Then, with thsquickness of her sex> she added regretfully. “And I don’t even know his name!” It did not seem to occur to Dare to mention that he was the man in question.