The Victim - Jr. Thomas Dixon

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that hand in hand we may go to the happy hunting grounds together."

      Near the first little settlement their prayer was granted.

      The young officer turned to his boat with a sigh as he saw the red warriors slip their arms about each other and slowly sink to the ground to die alone and unattended.

      Old Black Hawk sat in silent, stolid indifference to his fate until the curious settlers began to crowd on the boat and stare at his misery.

      The Lieutenant interfered with sharp decision.

      "Push those men back, Corporal!" he ordered angrily.

      The crowd was roughly pushed back and the Lieutenant took Black Hawk kindly by the arm and led him into a reserved apartment where he was free from vulgar eyes.

      The old man's lips tightened. He gazed at the officer steadily and spoke in measured tones:

      "The young war Chief treats me with much kindness. He is good and brave. He puts himself in my place and sees all that I suffer. With him I am much pleased."

      The Lieutenant bowed and left him under the protection of the guard. Courtesy to a fallen foe in the old days was the first obligation of an officer and a gentleman.

      In the autumn, Colonel Taylor again sent his Lieutenant on a distant duty—this time one of peculiar danger. He was ordered to Louisville and Lexington on recruiting service. And the cholera was known to be epidemic but a few miles from Lexington.

      The good-by scene that night at the lovers' trysting place, the little tent reception-room of the McCreas', was long and tender and solemn.

      "Oh, I feel dreadful about this trip, dear," his sweetheart kept repeating with pitiful despair that refused to be comforted.

      "You must be brave, my own," he answered with a frown. "A soldier's business is to die. I am a soldier. I go where duty calls—"

      "To battle—yes—but this black pestilence that comes in the night—I'm afraid—I just can't help it—I'm afraid. I've always had a horror of such things. I've a presentiment that you'll die that way—"

      "Presentiments and dreams go by opposites. I'll live to a ripe old age—"

      She looked up into his face with a tender smile:

      "You think so?"

      "Yes, why not?"

      "Well—I've something to tell you—"

      She paused and the man bent low.

      "What?"

      "I've made a vow to God—" the voice stopped with a sob—"that if He will only send you safely back to me this time—I'll wait no longer on my father's whim—I am yours—"

      The lover clasped her trembling form to his heart.

      "Good-by, dearest," he said at last. "I wish to go with that promise ringing in my soul."

      Ten days after he reached Lexington, the cholera broke out, and hundreds fled. He stood by his men, watched their diet, nursed the sick, and buried the dead. He helped the carpenter make the coffins and reverently bore the victims to their graves. No fear was in his soul. Love was chanting the anthem of Life.

      A strange new light was burning in the eyes of the woman he loved on the day he returned in safety.

      She seized his hand and spoke with decision:

      "Come with me."

      Her father was standing at the gate. She faced him, holding defiantly the hand of her lover.

      The old man saw and understood. His jaw was set with sullen determination and his face hardened.

      "We have waited two long years," she began softly. "We have been patient and hopeful, but you have given no sign. My lover's character is beyond reproach, and I am proud of him. I am sorry to cross you, Father, but I've made up my mind, I am going to marry him now."

      The Colonel turned in silence and slowly walked into the house.

      Captain McCrea engaged a stateroom for her on the boat for Louisville. The lovers planned to meet at her aunt's, the Colonel's oldest sister. The tearful good-bys had been said to Mother and sisters and brother. The Colonel had not spoken, but he had business on the boat before she cast her lines from the shore.

      The daughter drew him into her stateroom and slipped her arms around his neck. Few words were spoken and they were broken.

      "Please, Father—please?—I love you—please—"

      "No."

      "I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman. You're a real man and you know I could have no respect for myself if I should yield my life's happiness to a whim—"

      The old Colonel stroked her shoulder:

      "I understand. You're a chip off the old block. You're just as stubborn as I am. And—I—won't—eat—my—words."

      With firm hand, he drew away and hurried from the boat.

      The Taylor clan of Kentucky gathered for the wedding in force. The romance appealed to their fancy. They loved their high-spirited, self-poised little kinswoman and they liked the tall, modest, young officer she had chosen for her husband. The stern old Colonel was not there, but his brother and his three sisters and all their tribe made merry at the wedding feast.

      On the deck of the lazy river steamer, the bride and groom slowly drifted down the moonlit shimmering way to the fields of Mississippi.

      The bride nestled close to her lover's side in the long sweet silences too deep for words.

      He took her hand in his at last, and said tenderly:

      "I've something very important to tell you now, my dear—"

      "I'm not afraid—"

      "You trust me implicitly?"

      "Perfectly—"

      "You have given up all for me," he went on evenly, "I'll show your father what I can do for you—"

      "You love me—it's enough."

      "No. I have resigned my commission in the army. I have given up my career. We'll live only for each other now and build our nest in the far sunny South beyond the frost line."

      A little smothered cry was her answer. And then her head slowly sank with a sob on his breast.

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      They built their home on the banks of the great river where the tide sweeps in graceful curve, all but completing the circle of an enchanted isle.

      From the little flower-veiled porch through festoons of lacing boughs gleamed the waters of the huge curved mirror held by Nature's hand. The music from the decks of the steamers floated up on the soft air until music and perfume of flowers seemed one.

      In the cool of the morning, on swift, high-bred horses, they rode side by side along the river's towering bluff and laughed in sheer joy at their foolish happiness. In the waning afternoon, hand in hand, they walked the sunlit fields and paused at dusk to hear the songs of slaves. The happiness of lovers is contagious. It sets the hearts of slaves to singing.

      In the white solemn splendor of the Southern moon they strolled through enchanted paths of scented roses. On the rustic seat beneath a magnolia in full second bloom they listened to the song of a mocking-bird whose mate had built her nest in the rose trellis

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