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VOL. 11.
In Memoriam.
BY MRS. MEROAEET J. PRESTON OF KY.
I.
Past, the clash and clang of battle—
Past, the terrors, trials, fears—
Past, the deadly roar and rattle,
Vet we meet in tears.
ii.
Not a shout of exultation
Breaks the sobbing silence deep—
On the death-day of a nation
Is it strange we weep ?
hi.
But the homage sad we render
Softens with a proud relief,
And a solemn joy and tender
Mingles with our grief.
iv.
Oh, the heroes wrested from ns
Have not lived nor died in vain !
For their memory’s bow of promise
Spans our years of pain.
v.
Countless eyes have conned their story—
Ceuntless hearts grown brave thereby;
Let us thank the God of glory
We had such to die!
vr.
Where had been the Church’s honor,
When the overwhelming flood
Os her foes rushed fierce upon her,
But for martyr’s blood?
VII.
Where the lofty exclamations
O’r the wrench of thraldom’s chain ?
Where the grandeur of the nations,
But— for patriots slain ?
VIII.
Shall we, then, in sad procession—
Heads low bowed upon the breast—
Only bring our tears to freshen
Graves where heroes rest ?
IV.
Rather lay the rose and laurel,
Clad with dew, above the sod,
Learn their lives’ majestic moral,
Wait and trust in God !
[For the Banner of the South.]
The Executioner’s Bride.
BY MISS ANNIE M. B\ UNWELL, BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAPTER I.
GASTON de MORN AY.
In the Spring of 1454, when Charles
VII, surnamed the Victorious, had suc
ceeded in restoring peace to desolated
France, and she was beginning to recov
er from the long and bloody war with
England, whieh had proved so nearly
fatal to her independence as a nation,
two men were seated at a window over
looking the principal street of Rouen,
watching idly the passers below.
“Par ma foi\ my lord,” said the
jounger, a lad of scarce sixteen, who
performed the duties of page to the
knight at his side; “la belle Louise has
a pretty foot and a neat ankle to boot.
See how coyly she lifts her robe. She
knows we are watching her.
“Then her knowledge is at fault,” an
swered the knight impatiently; “for I, at
least, have not even seen her. Who is
she, and how have you contrived to know
her in two short days ?”
' She is our landlord,s daughter, and a
T . er y pretty one,” said the boy, laughing
lightly, as he added : “If you keep me
a week longer in so dull a place I’ll en
gage to know every fair demoiselle with
in its walls, by sight at least.”
“So you find Rouen dull, my Raoul,”
sa 'd the knight sadly. “Ah! no doubt
is after the gaities of Paris. lam
sorry to keep you here, but it will not be
[or long;” and the sigh which concluded
Ids speech was almost a groan.
the boy looked up affectionately into
ms master’s gloomy face, as he answered:
“t did not mean to complain, my lord;
■. I 11 )’ words were but spoken in idle jest,
f, * uow you are unhappy, and I would
rather be near 4tf mfcg To cheer your
loneliness, than at the gayest court ball
in Paris. Forgive me, if I speak too
boldly of what you have not confided to
me.”
Gaston de Mornay laid his hands kind
ly on on the shoulder of his page„sayiog:
“I am unhappy, mon enfant, and my
grief is one which can know no cure. I
would not budren your young heart with
so dark a sorrow; and this alone keeps
me from confiding in your well-proved
love. Believe me, it is no distrust.”
“A thousand thanks, my gracious mas
ter!” cried the boy, as he raised the
knight’s hand to his lips; “I feel your
kindness to the very depths of my’ heart;
but I fain would share your burden. Per
chance I may even, in some small mea
sure lighten it.”
“Your will to aid me I doubt not,
Raoul; but alas! she is beyond all hu
man help. The doom is sealed.”
‘‘The doom, my lord? Ah! your
words are to me unfathomable mys
teries.”
“You will know all some day,” said the
knight, replying to the boy’s wistful
glance, rather than to his words. “Would
you hear it now ?”
“If it give you not too much pain, sir,”
answered the boy, drawing nearer to the
knight, with eager and loving interest
lighting every feature.
De Mornay sighed heavily, and some
moments passed ere he spoke; and then,
it seemed to be on a subject foreign to
that of which they had been speaking.
Pointing to a tall man who walked slow
ly down the street he inquired:
Dost thou know who yonder knave is,
Raoul ?”
“Yes, my lord/ That is Bertrand
Ogier, the executioner of Rouen.”
The person De Mornay had pointed out
was one to whom a second glance would
always be accorded. Very tall, with a
form graceful, in spite of its almost ’gi
gantic proportions ; clad in black, with a
large cloak hanging over his left shoulder,
and a broad rimmed hat, of the same
sombre hue, slouched low over his fore
head. The upper part of the face was
concealed, but the stern, resolute mouth,
just shaded by a moustache of raven
blackness, was perfect as if chiselled in
in marble; and an occasional movement
of the lips revealed teeth of dazzling
whiteness. The complexion, though dark
was clear, and spoke plainly of the man’s
strong, vigorous health. He walked slow
ly, glancing neither to the right nor left,
with a ringing defiant tread.
Nothing obstructed his path, for
every one moved aside at his approach,
anxious to avoid the very touch of his
loosely waving cloak; but no word was
spoken. It was plain that the execution
er was both feared and hated.
De Mornay gazed at him until he strode
out of sight, and then leaning back on
his chair, concealed his pale face in hands
which Raoul saw were trembling. They
sat for a time in silence, tin 1 boy watching
his master earnestly, but by no move
ment disturbing his reverie. It was
dark, when the knight raised his head
and spoke.
“I will tell you now, Raoul, the secret
of my wretchedness. Listen.”
“Three years ago, ere you knew me, I
was betrothed to one whom all acknowl
edged as the fairest maiden in France.
She was the only daughter of the Count
de Lisle, a noble of Provence; and the
Count being impoverished in the late
wars, yielded his consent that the son of
his old brother-in-arms should wed his
only child, the heiress of his ancient
name and heavily burdened estates. I
was then wealthy, but before the period
fixed for our marriage arrived, the anger
of the Dauphin fell upon me, and by his
influence I was stripped of my posses
| sions, and left in the comparative poverty
lin which you found me. The Count or
dered his daughter to give me up, the
King forbade our marriage, and finally,
to crown my wretchedness, Isabelle wrote
Gr-A.,
me a cold farewell. I went to Loraine,
where I met you, my faithful boy, and
from that time, until I left you so sud
denly, three months ago in Paris, we were
never separated. You know how my
uncle’s death restored me to wealth ; and
the first use I made of it was to seek a
renewal of my engagement with Isabelle.
The King, who is all kindness when the
Dauphin is not near, readily consented,
and I hastened to Provence. T saw the
Count, but he would not listen to my
prayers, telling me that Isabelle would,
in three weeks, be the wife of Sire de
Coucy, a noble of immense wealth, the
worst of tempers, the coldest of hearts
enfin, a worn out roue of sixty-five.
“I was in despair; but lovers are bold,
and I succeeded in getting a letter to
Isabella, imploring her to see me alone.
We met that night, by the aid of her
nurse, who was my friend, in a little
chapel, which adjoined the Castle de
Lisle, and, weeping on my breast, she
swore to me her love. She had been
forced to write that cruel letter, she
sobbed, and now they would force her to
wed the Sire de Coucy, if I could not
save her. I was in a state of blissful
intoxication at finding her faithful, and
we arranged a plan for flight. We de
cided to leave in a fornight, and I has
tened to make every preparation for her
comfort and safety. You were in Paris
and I feared to send or even write to you,
lest it should betray me, for I was in
concealment; every one, even you, be
lieving me to be in Italy.
Ere the first week had passed, the
Sire de Coucy arrived at the Castle,
with, it was reported, an immense sum
of money in his possession. We resolved
to fly’ at once The night was appointed,
but on the day preceding it, the nurse
sought me, with a tale full of horror.
De Coucy had been murdered the night
before, his vast sura of money was miss
ing, and my Isabelle had been arrested
as his murderer. Two of De Coucy’s
friends bad seen her hurrying from the
direction of his chamber, in the dead of
night, pale and terrified, and on search
being made a portion of his money was
found in her possession. This she re
fused to account for, merely reiterating
that she was guilty of a great crime but
not of De Coucy’s death. Her father
was stern and silent, and had allowed
her to be taken to Paris in custody.
I was horror-stricken, but firm in be
lieving Isabelle innocent. I questioned
the old woman, who was passionately de
voted to her nursling, and to me, she con
fessed, with bitter tears, that she thought
her guilty. She eould not otherwise ac
count for her possession of so large a sum
of money, which was easily proved to be
a portion of De Coucy’s treasure ; or fur
the extreme terror and confession of hav
ing committed a crime.
I dared do nothing to aid her, as the
least suspicion of my presence in the
neighborhood, would be considered evi
dence of her guilt, I would be arrested
as,her confederate, and the greater por
tion of the money, of which no trace
could be found, would be supposed to
have been carried off and secreted by
me. How the missing links in the chain
of evidence against her would be fully
supplied. I knew that by silence and :
prudence alone I could hope to aid her. j
“You heard vaguely of her trial in j
Paris, though it was kept profoundly se-'
cret, as the Count was the warm per
sonal friend of the Dauphin s. But so
was De Coucy; and Louis, while sparing
the father’s pride, yet used every effort to
bring the daughter to the scaffold. He
whom you know, never fails in accom
plishing his object, succeeded in inducin *■
the reluctant King to sign her death-war
rant, and in obedience to his will she was
condemned to suffer at Rouen. You
heard of the execution to take place on
the morrow. It is my Isabelle who is to
be the victim.”
Exhausted by the violent emotioD, which
had rendered the latter part of his
speech nearly inaudible, De Mornay threw
himself back in his chair, almost insen
sible. The affectionate attention of Raoul
failed to restore him to his wonted calm
composure, and the night was spent in a
storm of despair and agony.
CHAPTER 11.
THE EXECUTIONER OF ROUEN.
In a handsome house, furnished with
profuse magnificence, dwelt Bertrand
Ogier, the executioner of Rouen.
It was nine o’clock of the same evening
on which De Mornay had confided to his
Page the name of the mysterious stranger
condemned to suffer on the morrow.
Ogier was alone, pacing, with measured
steps, the richly carpeted apartment,
which was his favorite sitting-room. Di
vested of his cloak and hat, the tall, ma
jestic form, and proud face, were fully
exposed to view. They were such as a
sculptor would have chosen for his model
of Olympian Jove; perfect in every pro
portion, and with a brow, which seemed
formed to wear a crown.
There was something in his mien, to
night, which spoke of no ordinary ex
citement. His head was thrown proudly
back, his dark eyes flashed with grati
fied pride, and on his lips quivered a
smile. He spoke, in low, rich tones as
he paced the floor.
“To-morrow, to-morrow, I will take my
place among the nobles of France. For
this I have toiled and waited; for this I
have hardened my heart, nerved my arm,
and beat down my pride; for this I have
stained my hands with the blood of alike
the innocent and the guilty; for this I
have borne scorn, hatred, loathing from
the common rabble, as well as from the
noble and great. But to-morrow, my
struggle ends—to-morrow this arm will
strike its last blow upon the accursed
block, and exchange the axe for a knight
ly sword. My patent of nobility is ready
and but awaits one final, successful stroke
to make me, no longer Bertrand Ogier,
the executioner of Rouen, but Bertrand
Baron de Bellemonte, lord of the fairest
estate in sunny Gascony’. Once a noble
there is nothing under royalty to which I
may not aspire. All, but high birth, na
ture gave, and that I have won for my
self. I have watched them all, these no
bles of France; I have marked them in
the field, the tournament, the council and
the court. They will find me no novice
in the accomplishments befitting a knight.
I will take my place at once among them
as their peer—nay, I have marked them
well, and I can and will be their superior,
Ah! my good, right arm,!’ and he shook
it aloft, “thou will not fail me to-morrow.
One blow, but one, and my dream of life
is at last realized.”
He ceased speaking, but his lips yet
moved, as though the words were still
articulated below his breath. Suddenly
they became again audible.
“A woman’s neck! ah, would that it
were otherwise. It is slender aud easily
severed; yet, would it were the stoutest
throat ever shaded by a beard, rather
than a woman’s white and delicate neck.
I can nerve my arm, but it is harder far
to nerve my heart; and I have never shed
a woman’s blood. But I will not think
of this; it makes me weak, when I must
be most cool and strong. The Dauphin
says she is a treacherous, blood-stained,
wretch, who slew her father’s friend and
guest, that she might rob him of his
gold. What crime can be blacker than
this ? Surely her doom is just.”
He spoke again.
“Eleven years ago, when a boy scarce
seventeen, I swore to die a nobleman of
France, and I have kept my vow. No
other way opened before me, save that
which lay over the scaffold, and I took
it; no other weapon save the axe could
carve out for me a place among those of
lordly birth ; a place among my father’s
peers: and I grasped it firmly and used
it well. Once a woman’s cry, as she
saw the axe descending upon her son,
caused my arm to tremble, and I was
forced to strike a second blow. Thrice
has my victim escaped me by poison, and
twice has a pardon wrenched him from
me on the scaffold. Yet, eight noble
heads have rolled in the dust, severed
by one blow of this mighty arm ; and
to-morrow, the ninth, and, Grace a
Dicu, the last will fall, and I shall be a
knight and noble of France. The Dau
phin is my friend ; onee I saved his life,
and the friends of Louis may climb to
dizzie heights, for he will be no royal
puppet, but a mule among men; a cruel
despot perchance, but one who wields an
absolute sway.” .
He mused on in silence, until the
sound of the clock striking eleven,
roused him. He paused before the win
dow, and looking out into the darkness,
murmured:
“What is she doing now, this poor crea
ture, whose life must end the moment
when mine commences ?”
A sudden thought flashed into his mind
‘‘What if she escapes me!” he exclaim
ed aloud. What if she, too, has obtained
poison !”
With an uncontrollable impulse, he
seized his cloak and hat, and muffling
himself up, so as to be safe from recogni
tion, he strode rapidly down the deserted
street, in the direction of the prison.
It was necessary to pass the house in
which De Mornay lodged, and the sighs
and groans proceeding from the unhappy
knight, reached the car of Ogier as he
hurried by.
“Ah,” he thought, “there is someone
in sore distress. Perchance it is some
relative of the unhappy prisoner. Truly
mine is an accursed office.”
He reached the prison and found no
difficulty in gaining admission, even at
that late hour. He stated his errand to
the jailor, who, while assuring him that
he need have no fear, willingly conduct
ed him to the condemed cell. They moved
cautiously, and, on reaching the door,
Ogier stooped, and, looking through a
narrow grated opening in the wall, saw,
for the first time, the high-born prisoner.
With a start of horror he drew noise
sessly back, and signed to the jailor to
open speedily. He was obeyed ; and as
the heavy door swung back, he sprang
forward, and seized the hand of the pris
oner, as she was in the act of conveying
a small phial to her lips.
With a cry, in which surprise, terror
and disappointment were blended with a
strange sense of relief, the unhappy wo
man fell upon her knees at Ogier’s feet,
clinging to him and exclaiming:
“Oh !do not take it from me! For the
love of heaven do not take it from me !”
Isabelle de Lisle was not yet nineteen,
and beautiful as a poet’s dream. Although
the rose of Provence had faded from her
cheek and lips, under the weight of her
sufferings, yet many would have pro
nounced her even more wildly beautiful
amid her deadly paler and disordered
dress. The exquisite features, though
wasted by agony, preserved their fault
less beauty, and the deep Hue eyes, now
dimmed by constant weeping, spoke to
the heart with a power greater than they
had ever possessed in their days of bright
ness. The long, dark, waving hair float
ed around her fragile form, reaching be
low her waist, and enveloping her like a
shadowy cloud. She was very small,
seemingly a mere child, as she crouched
at the feet of the stern and angry execu
tioner.
With a quick motion Ogier bade the
jailor leave them, ere he asked harshly:
“Do you know to whom you plead,
wretched girl ? Do you know at whose
hands you ask the means of self-destruc
tion !”
“No! No!” shrieked the supplican
wildly. “I do not kuow your name, but*
I see tha f you are noble and powerful.
Perchance you are one of my .judges and
can set me free. Oh, noble Sire! have
mercy upon an innocent and helpless
girl! Save me! Save me!”
Ogier’s stern Bps quivered. She saw
ISTo. 13.