THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 59, 1 June 1907, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

THE OUTPOST; OR, A DREAM THAT CAME TRUE. I. '•ls the guard changed yet I Oh,'te?l men! Have they relieved the outpost? The hour is past—quite past; you know that Harry is ill, but he would not layup. Oh, what a night it is! How the wind whistles and the snow lies thick upon the mountain side! Tell me—oh, tell me! Has the relief gone?" This half-frenzied speech was made by Mary Moore the wife of Harry Moore, a private in the —Ui Light Dragoons, to' a sergeant of the same regiment. They stood ou the south side of the huge dismantled house that was used as a barrack in one of the most desolate of the wild glens in the county of Wieklow, Ireland. The-th hud been stationed' there on special service, and sentinels. consisting of the dismounted dragoons!! were posted on the hills close at hand. j

The winter was a memorable one for its intense cold, and already two men had been brought in from their posts, stiff and stark, and dead, from the inclemency of the weather. The Devonshire men, of -whom the noble-lookiu.< regiment principally consisted, could not stand the horrors of such a season, outlying upon the Wieklow mountains. "Why, Mrs Moore," said the sergeant, "the fact is, that—that—it's about the worst night there has been yet, and the j very life-blood about my heart is halffrozen."

"And that is here under shelter, too, sergeant. Oh, what must it be upon the hills? I know Harry is ill, very ill."

"It's a pity he did not report himself."

"I wanted him; but he would not.-He was afraid the men would say he was afraid of the cold, bo he would not; hut you can'tell me if the relief has gone. You know Colonel Hargrave said the relief would be every hour while the cold was what it is."

"Yes;, but—but the fact? is that the Colonel has gone to Dublin to have an interview with the Lord Lieutenant. They say that the lads in green are on the rise again, and that we shall have warm work in Ireland this season; and, yon see they are afraid to send Irish regiments that are used to the place, for fear that they should act but in a lukewarm way against the people." "But you do not answer me about the relief."

"Well, then, I must tell you that the adjutant has ordered that the usual two hours' guard shall lie kept."

"Two hours on the hillside on such a night as this! Why, it is the same spot that has already proved fatal to two of the men. It is cruel—cruel! Oh, it

"Hush! Mrs Moore. Hush!. The less you say the better about all that. I daresay he will come in all right." "I will go to him." "Against oi-A>™ Mr. \r~,~.i t»v---j

cwWes already with the regiment, and I -- kwrr he would be glad enough to send away a few. Take a bint, Mrs Moore, and don't let him have to report that the women interfered with the men while on duty. Don't go." "I know nothing—l feel nothing, but that he may be dying, and the snowstorm is blfnding him. Harry!— Harry! my heart tells me that you are no more! I will fly to your side! They may kill me, if thew will, now!"

. As she spoke she darted off through the snowdrift in search of her husband, who had been posted about a quarter of a mile off, on one of the bleakest mountain sides that the vicinity could boast of—if it was a boast at all to have a spot so cold that nothing but a few hardy briars would condescend to live upon it.

The snow fell in large flakes, and it was more like broken pieces of ice, dashing from huge icebergs, than snow. Poor Mrs Moore felt that they cut her cheeks, .and that the blood was mingling .with the tears that gushed from her eyes. ? The wind roared and moaned about her. 'and wrestled with her. as though it were i,a living spirit, and would fain avert her progress; but she fought her way until flshe was challenged by one of the senti- * nels. The hoarse, sharp "Who goes there J" sounded upon her ears.

"It's I!" she cried; "Moore's wife. Where is. he posted V "He is outlying, Mrs Moore," said the man; "but I ought not to speak to you. Go back." "No—no!"

"But you must. I " She flitted past the man like a ghost, and was gone in the snowdrift before he could say another word. "Umph!" said the man. "I know well it was the adjutant who put poor Moore on the outpost. Mrs Moore is«*ls pretty a young woman as you will find on a summers day, and the adjutant has an eye in his head." Mrs Moore fled on and now she found that she was ascending the mountain, and at times the snow lay so thick that it was positive wading to get, through it; but she felt nothing now—thought of nothing, but the fate, alas! but too probable, of her husband on the outpost.

"Harry!— Harry!" she cried. "'Tis I, Harry! Oh, speak! The daylight is close at hand and the relief will soon be here!"

There was no answer save from the howling blast, that seemed to gather new fury as the young wife called to the .partner of her heart amid that sterile region.

"Oh, Harry! you are dead—dead! This is murder! It is done on purpose. I ought to have told you what the adjutant said to me; but I dreaded the result of so doing. I kngw that yon would have forgotten everything lm* that I was insulted, and that you must be avenged. You have been sent len to die, Harry. I know it—l feel it! What is that?— What is thatl

A strange, hoarse, screaming cry sounded on the blast, and something dashed past the face of Mrs Moore, as she sank iu terror on the ground, and was nearly covered up by a snowdrift. It was a huge bird of sonic carrion specieg. that at such times were driven from 'he very tops of the mountains to seek I'oi sustenance on the lower slopes. Twice it circled with hoarse shrieks round the head of the young wife with the hope that she had but laiu down to die; and as the morning life began to look with a grey coldness over the waste of snow and ice, she saw the blood-red eyes of th» gigantic bird fixed upon her, as it almost touched her with its fluttering wings.

With a cry of terror, she rose. The bird echoed the cry, and darted upward fifty feet above her head, where. like a something poised between heaven and earth, it rested on its outspread wings.

The wife struggled on a step or two with her hands clasped across her bos- I or,i and a look of half-insanity. She muttered a prayer, and then sha saw something a little in advance of her halfcovered by the snow. A dim cloud swept away from the V st, and a yellowish tinge of light crept over sea and land. With a cry of agony, she rushed forward, and fell, half-dead, upon the corpse of her husband. The great hird swooped down bow 3 thirty feet, and began ft, circling flight •ver and around them. Alreadv h

imagination il feasted upon their eyes. and revelled in the coming delight of the still warm Wood thai might lurk yet in some comer of their lieurU. But Mrs Moon; did not faint. The idea that there ■night still lie life iu her husband revived her, and she rose to her knees. She tore open his vest, and plaeed both her bands "lion bis heart. At times he thought it beat: and then, again, with freezing booror. she told herself that all was still.

The carrion bird swoooped close down. It seemed as if the famished creatine knew the man was dead, and was content to light with her for possession of the reamins.

"Cue word. Harry," she cried, "only one word, if you can speak one to me. Let me hear l m ( the faintest sigh to assure me that you live!" »he placed both her hands in her bosom, to warm them; but he did not move—he did not speak. She dash-" the blinding snow from her eyes. ! "Help! H«l|i! : ' she cried, but the dej scending snow drowned her voice. She shrieked; but 'the next sentinel only fancied he heard some slight wailing noise upon the blast.

j "O Heaven!" she cried, "he is dead, j or if not dead quite, the. small lingering I spark of life that may be fanned into a i llame will go out for want of help. He will die, if ho be not quite dead, and there is no one to aid me to warm his cold, cold heart! Harry!— Harry! come close to me—come close! Dear Harry! it is I—you own Mary—your wife—your love!"

She flung herself on the still form in an agony of tears. Her hand fell uponthe carbine that the soldier had had with him on his watch. What had he it with him for but to give the alarm, if anything unusual presented' itself? Ah, wliat a happy thought! Might not she discharge it, and so summon aid, even yet, before it was too late? She raised the weapon, and as she did so the bird made a uart downwards. Like a great shadow between her and the morning light, it came. She saw the extended beak, ready to make the plunge into the eye of the dead. She fired, and the feathery monster fell, with a shriek of paiii The weight of the bird dashed her to the ground, and, with its huge wings fluttering in death upon them both, lay the soldier and his wife! H. Mary opened her eyes, and uttered a deep sigh. / She looked round her with surprise. She was in the little room in the old barrack that had been devoted to herself and her husband. But he was not there!

"Harry!— Harry!" One of the soldiers' wives came forward. . "Oh, Mrs Moore, I'm so glad to hear the sound of your voice again. I did think you would never speak in this world." "Harry!— Harry! Where is he?" "Oh woman, don't you know? Did you not find him dead on the mountain? still. ' "Ah, poor thing, she has gone off into a faint again, and there's no knowing when she iray recover; and the doctor says he can't do her any good, poor young creature! So I'll just leave her [to herself. I don't think you will ever look at the sunshine again, Mary Moore: and, perhaps, as poor Moore has gone from you to the grave it's as well if you don't. Hush! Hush! Why they are taking him to the old graveyard yonder now." " I

The woman hurried to the'door of tinbuilding to watch the soldiet's funeral, and Mary slept. It soon told how sin was iu the barrack. The sound of the carbine that she had fired had reached the next sentinel, and he had fired his; so that the alarm was given to the liarrack, and a p-rty was sent out, that brought in the dead bird of the prey and the insensible forms of both Mary and her husband. The soldier was declared dead, but Mary breathed, and was placed upon the little palelt-bird in her own day succeeding the dreadful night upon the hills, and the adjutant had given orders for the fuueral of Moore to take place in the little churchyard about a third of a mile from the station of the

regiment. With downcast faces, the men marchcl slowly, for Moore had been loved in tin regiment. Six trumpeters played a mournful air—it was the "Dead March" —upon their instruments; and to the long-drawn cadences of the wailing music, the sad and strange procession wended its way to the little burying place. Oh, it was a, sad and pitiable sight to see that soldier's funeral! There were the stout, stalwart men, arrayed in all the trappings and insignia of war, looking as though they might wage successful war with Death itself, solemnly acknowledging the power of the fell destroyer. Mournfully they marched, with their arms reversed: and then came the horses—the friend, the companion of the dead soldier—the horse he had loved, and which loved him. Across the saddN jhung sonic of the warlike trappings of Ill's dead master; and it might have been fancy, but the men round the nobl;> creature thought that its head bowed low, and that at times it shook with a visible emotion, as the wailing trumpet blast came upon the air. But before that had gone the rude coffin—knocked together upon the spur of the moment, and "1><"« it lay the helmet that was to be worn no more, and the gloves of the gallant soul that was going to mingle with the dust. Tramp—tramp—went the procession with the dead and the trumpets filled the keen air with the soft melancholy tones that heralded the soldier's funeral. The ollii-crs conversed in whispers, and upon every face there was a look of stern grief. A light, misty vapor began to come up from a neighboring valley, but now and then a (hike of snow fell upon the collin. as though the spirits of the storm had not yet done their worst with the still tenant of that gloomy abode.

and those who led the horse patted und caressed it, as though they would comfort it for the loss of a kind master: and more than once a rough soldier would look his inarching neighbor in the fare and pronounce the name of the adjutant between his clenched teeth.

The little graveyard was reached. The idd parish priest stood there, and courteously marie way for the corpse into his little fold of defuncts.

The word was given to halt. The trumpets ceased. The firing party, with their carbines ready for service, stood by the grave, and the captain of the "ompany to which Moore had belonged stepped forward to read the Burial Service, for the chaplain of the regiment was in Dublin. All was still—you might almost have heard the sullen ;nowfl.ikcs as they dropped upon the coffin—when a shriek burst upon (he ears of all present, and Mrs Moore rushed forward to the graveside. Her hair was in disorder—her dress hanging loosely about her. Her feet were bare. She had risen from her bed and madly bounded over rock and field to the little graveyard, in defiance of all pursuit, and there she stood before the appalled gaze of all, more like a spectre than a living being. It was some moments before she could speak, and twice the officers had si riven to persuade her to go hack in care of them, when she cried, in a loud, exultant voice:

' ''lie is not dead! [le is not dead! (iod Ims sent me an angel to tell me that he is not dead!"

j A general exclamation burst from the jsoldiers. The horse stamped upon the old graveyard! ! "He is not dead! Von may tell in.' ■it is but a dream, but 1 tell you it win from God!"

She lifted up her hands towards heaven as she spoke, and no one could say one word to her at that moment, for she looked like one inspired. [ A horseman galloped into the little graveyard. It was the adjutant, Hi* coarse, sensual features were red with |>a:-sion as he cried:

" Wwt is all this? What do vou all wait for?"

"-Airs Moore says her husband is n.-t dead, sir," said n sergeant. "Not dead! Ha! ha! Then we will bury him as he is. Proceed, and let a '■le of women take that mad woman back to the barracks."

J A confused murmur passed among the troops, and Mary, dashing aside her I'ing hair, (lung herself upon the c011i,,, 'crying:

"lie is here—my hiisband-my Hun-v! Me is not dead! 11, was you.' you villain!—(she pointed to the adjutant, who shrank from her gaze)—it was,you who sent him to (he mountain post—it was you who ordered the relief for two hours, instead of one; and why did you ilo all that? Oh, soldiers, I 'will tell you "

"Stop her noise!" shouted the. adjutant. "Down with her!" "Not yet," said the captain of .Moore's company, his face Hushing with passion -as he drew his sword. "It will be an infortuuate moment for him who lays a hand upon her." "Hurrah!" cried the soldiers, as if with one breath; and then the most startling silence prevailed. The adjutant turned as pale as death, and the foam of passion was upon his lips. "Yes/' cried Mary, in a shrieking voice, while she strove with her hands to tear open the coffin. "Yes—that man! the adjutant, there, sought, while the brave soldier was upon duty assigned him by his King and country, to dishonor him by dishonoring his wife! I had to struggle with a villain! That is the villain There-there! How white he looks! The pale lips of my Harry shall glow with life's hue again, and not look like his! He lives—l tell you he lives! Will no one open this abode of death?" Half a dozen soldiers sprang forward j to opeu the coffin; but the adjutant, in a voice of screaming rage, cried. "Hack, men—back! Anyoue who touches that coffin, except to inter it, I will have tried by court-martial, and shot before sunrise." "Allow me. one word." said a mild voice; and two gentlemen, one of whom was iu undress military costume, and the other garbed as a civilian, passed to the grave's brink.

'•The colonel!" cried a voice among the men; and then a wild hurrah again shook the air, as in the person in the undress military costume the men reeog-

Uli, UHoilel Margrave," said the adjutant. "I'm glad you have come. We have almost a mutiny here. You see; colonel, this poor womau has lost her husband, and ith as driven her mad."

"The worse her calamity, sir," said the colonel. "But yet there seems to be wonderful method in her madness. This gentleman and I have heard what has passed for the last ten minutes; and if the poor woman be possessed with th» idea that her husband is not dead, It would be a sad thing to prevent her from having the" peace of mind.of knowing that it is a fallacy. Is the surgeon here ?"

"Yes, colonel," said the surgeon, bustling forward. "Open the cofiin, my men." The coilin was wrenched open, whil" .Mary knelt by its side, and the surgeon, with a confused look, placed bin baud upon the breast of the corpse.

"Well, sir?" said the colonel. ■•l—l—really There's a very un usual warmth."

"He lives," cried Mary, casting herself upon the breast of the corpse. 0 Heaven!—o'Heaven! It is true! It was angel who came to tell mc! I can hear bis heart beating gently! He lives! He lives!

The supposed dead soldier slowly opened his eyes, and looked wildly about him.

"He lives!'' cried (he soldiers nearest the collin; and the words spread like wildfire throughout the little burialground A ringing shout from every throat among the men proclaimed how dearly welcome was the news; and then a shout of laughter ensued, as the adjutant's voice—for he made an effort to say something—was completely drowned iby the six trumpeters commencing playling, with great spirit, "The Groves of Blarney."

Mary fainted upon her husband's breast, and the horse made a grateful •sound, as he looked into his master's face, which was resting upon the arm of the captain. The gentleman who was in plain clothes then stepped forward and said: "Can anyone corroborate the charge | that Mrs Moore has made against the adjutant '!" "Yes. sir," said the soldier's wife who had been attending upon Mary, and who had arrived after her at the churchyard. "Yes, sir, 1 heard it all. and saw some of it; but 1 was afraid to complain of il. We all dread the malice of the adjutant."

"Then you need dread it no more. Adjutant Jones, you are from this moment unattached, and 1 think you will be dis missed from the service. Soldiers, take your comrade—who, 1 am as happy as possible, to *ec. is restored to life—carefully to the barracks, and let him want for nothing. The conduct of the surgeon of this regiment will be fully inquired into."

"And who. sir, are you," cried the Adjutant, "that dare to talk to me in such a style?" The colonel spoke in reply. "I. shall have the honor." he said, "of presenting my ollicers to the Marquis of Anglesen. [.old Lieutenant of Ireland. His lonMiip is making a lour through the disturbed province*, and came with me from Dublin: and hearing at 111' barracks that the wife of a soldier had rushed, in what might be called a slate of madness, to the funeral of her husband, we followed, and were happily in time to be of se."icc.''

'•Yes, - ' said the of Anglesea: "and I wish all to know.-that, while I govern in Ireland, there shall not be an injustice done by high or low that 1 will not remedy if 1 know it. Let us get under cover, my men, for the snowdrift incoming sharply. March! And be careful of your sick comrade, and always remember that, while [ have the luippine-*

of the Soldier at heart. 1 will not neglect the proper feelings of a soldier's wife."