ADMIRAL DUNCAN RECEIVING THE SWORD OF THE DUTCH ADMIRAL DE WINTER, OCTOBER 11, 1797 gaining fresh laurels, and, under Lord Amherst, taking a large share in the capture of that redoubtable fortress. And so we come to that great conflict wherein for the last time Old and New England fought side by side. The year 1759, and a moonless night in early September, dark and intensely still. No light save that of stars; no sound save the ripple of the swift, inflowing tide, as it washes the base of the cliffs grim and frowning above the city of Quebec. All things seem to sleep; yet on either side of the river a thousand wakeful eyes keep watch and ward. Now from below the fortress comes the boom of cannon, and against the dull red glow that spreads across the sky we see, far up the river, the dark outlines of ships swinging at anchor. Close under their shadow wait a rowers bend to their oars, and in darkness and silence the boats move rapidly down the river. In the foremost, with several officers, sits their leader; calm, and strong in his daring purpose, though knowing well its failure would mean irretrievable disaster. Presently his voice. breaks the silence, and in low, reverent tones he repeats to his wondering listeners those immortal words: "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave." On go the boats, with nought to bar their way save an occasional "Qui vive!" from some solitary sentinel above. Our hero's path of glory draws near its end, but there is great work yet to be done. At length they draw up on a narrow strip life were spent. His family then removed to Greenwich, where James attended the school of Doctor Swinden, a clergyman who had good reason to be proud of his pupils. Among them was little John Jervis, son of the Treasurer of Greenwich Hospital, and afterward the famous Admiral, Earl St. Vincent. warm friendship sprang up between the two boys, ending only with Wolfe's death. Jervis was in charge of a sloop at the A siege of Quebec, and to him Wolfe had confided his last wishes and commissions in the event of the expedition ending fatally. The place which had seen our hero's first start in life was also to be the place of his rest. His body was embalmed and carried home to Greenwich, where it was laid beside that of his father, General Edward Wolfe, in the vault beneath the Church of St. Alphege. BOSTON, MASS. ALICE D'ALCHO. W NUBIA OF SARACENESCO* CHAPTER IV HEN Heinrich awoke he looked around him in surprise: where was he? Had he become a monk in the night? Was this his cell? His dream troubled him, although he could not remember what he had dreamed. Nubia! At this name he recalled all; the strange experience of the preceding day, and that he was in love,-in love as only a youth of two-and-twenty can be; leaving out of the question altogether the cloister of Sant' Isidora, pious Maestro Overbeck, and all the celestial virgins and saints with whom his youthful heart had been filled for so long a time. Heinrich closed his eyes again, in order to dream on of the face of an earthly maiden. And he murmured drowsily, "No, dear Maestro Overbeck, no Madonna, no Madonna." At this juncture he remembered that she was near by, that he had but to rise to be with her. With one bound he left his bed. Hurriedly he made his toilet and looked about him-alas! in vain for a mirror, an object which he had always considered indispensable. Having combed his hair, without being able to satisfy himself that it was glossy enough to impress Nubia, he repaired to the living-room. Here he found only the mother and another guest, a young Franciscan monk, whose dark-brown cowl was exceedingly becoming to his pale, ascetic face. On his entrance Heinrich's eyes met his, which rested upon him with so gloomy an expression, a glance in which glowed such passionate feeling,- that the artist could not skake off a sense of discomfort, although he was forced to greet the brother courteously, for his hostess's sake. He then asked for Nubia. He was told she was not at home, and it seemed to Heinrich as if the mother's manner toward him had changed since the night before; the woman answered him timidly. As she prepared a polenta for her guest, she said: "This is Fra Girolamo of San Cosimato. Fra Girolamo comes to our mountain every month and preaches to us. If you leave us to-day, he can accompany you, that you may not get lost in the woods. In his cloister are the sacred grottoes in which Saint Benedict hid from his enemies. That is a consecrated spot, where you can pray, for you are surely a good Christian, as I told our brother." "I am a Catholic," replied Heinrich, vexed with himself at his answer: what need had he to explain his faith before this pallid Franciscan? He was on the point of saying that he was not inclined to offer up his devotions in the grottoes of Saint Benedict, when the door of the other room opened and Nubia entered, clad in her best gown, in which, although it was shabby, she looked like a princess. First of all she greeted the monk, although without kissing his hand; then she nodded to Heinrich. "You are up early. I fear the sun must have awakened you, for in the morning it shines full upon the bed. I saw that you had forgotten to close the shutters; to be sure, I should have reminded you last night. Do not forget it to-day." Heinrich's reply was that he must leave to-day, but she interrupted him: "While I was dressing in my room I heard our brother here explain to mother what a strange being an artist is. I resolved to beg of you, therefore, to stay *Continued from SELF CULTURE for December, 1899, Vol. x, No. 4, p. 370. with us and to paint a Virgin for our spring. For in the summer the water often dries up, which is a great misfortune for us; if, however, a picture is put by the cistern, the Virgin will certainly intercede for us, and we shall have water during the hot months. Will you paint us the picture ?» Heinrich turned pale; he looked at Nubia. "I will remain and paint the picture." The monk rose. "If you need a picture of the Virgin so badly, I will procure you one from the cloister. This stranger may go calmly on his way; we do not need his services." The mother seemed to be of this opinion as well; but Nubia, turning to Heinrich, said: "You heard what our brother said. If you wish to go on your way, I will not ask you to stay; but if you wish to remain you shall be our guest." Heinrich repeated, "I will stay and paint the picture." Nubia nodded pleasantly to him; her mother and the monk said nothing: the latter soon departed, the elder woman accompanying him, leaving the couple alone. Heinrich took courage, approached the beautiful girl, and said in an unsteady voice: "The brother is angry that you took me into your house, and if I stay he will be still angrier. Your guest is bringing trouble upon you! It would have been better for you had you not asked me to paint the holy picture." The lovely woman gazed at the agitated artist with perfect composure and answered him gaily: "Do not worry about the monk's anger. Although he is our confessor and is very severe with us, he nevertheless has no control over me. That is what vexes him. I must tell you something else: when you said yesterday that you were an artist, and told us about the girls and women on the Spanish Steps, whose pictures artists paint. I felt a repugnance toward you and my heart grew heavy. This morning, however, I overheard our brother rail against artists in terms of vehement condemnation. I do not know how it was, but while the brother condemned you and bade my mother put you out, my heart became suddenly light; I am glad now that you are an artist, for it can be nothing wrong and sinful." >> Heinrich exclaimed: "Ah, Nubiabut as he saw the girl's mother returning to the room, he continued hurriedly, in a low voice: "Your mother? She will share the monk's opinion of me; she will be afraid of me and angry with you, because you bade me remain." Nubia reassured him, however: "My mother is not under the monk's control either. I must tell you that my father, dying without partaking of the Holy Sacrament, received no Christian burial. Still, my father was a truly pious and honest man; since that time my mother's feelings have greatly changed; she has not so much respect for monks; we of Saracenesco are said to be poor Christians; we cannot help it." Her mother entered, and Nubia lapsed into silence. Probably the former had received orders from the monk how to treat the dangerous guest, yet she seemed to be more inclined to be friendly than Heinrich had dared to hope. His hostess's handsome face seemed to him graver, more rigid and sorrowful. Nubia looked out upon the street and said: "Now the monk is going among the other women and talking against our guest; I shall talk to them too!» The mother feigned not to hear these words. Nubia then began to speak of indifferent things. Soon the faint tone of a bell was heard. The mother said: "It is ringing for mass." "I thought Saracenesco had no church," cried Heinrich in surprise. "We worship," explained Nubia, “at the well, under the tree. As you are a Christian you will surely go with us?" Heinrich nodded gravely; he thought; "Were I a heathen, I would nevertheless go to mass with you and be the most devout of all." As they were late in reaching the place of worship, the small congregation had already assembled under the tree; Heinrich took his seat with the men, in such a position that he could see Nubia and the entire strange scene. On one side of the tree, beneath a canopy formed by its enormous boughs, through which the sunbeams glinted, was the space set apart for service. A rude black crucifix was fastened to the trunk of the beech; the altar was composed of rocks. Branches of broom were twined about the cross, and the altar was strewn with the pretty blossoms of the torchweed and purple thistles. Under the crucifix, in priestly garb, stood the young Franciscan monk, holding in both hands the Host, which he set upon the bright, flowerstrewn altar. A handsome boy assisted. The child was full of religious zeal, and performed his duties with great dignity and reverence; when he rang the bell, which hung on the tree next the cross, his whole face beamed with delight; he was charmed with the exercise, and his eyes sparkled as he pulled the cord and looked at his companions, who, he knew, envied him. Heinrich also kneeled with the congregation, crossed himself, and closed his eyes. He rose only when mass was finished. Then he looked around him. From his seat he could look beyond the assembly, upon the distant Roman plain. The sea sparkled against the horizon. In the dim light of the overhanging boughs was the flower-strewn altar, the wreathed crucifix, the young priest, and the congregation, consisting mostly of women. And what women! The most beautiful was at her mother's side, looking-not at the priest, not at the cross, but far, far out into the shimmering distance. Heinrich finally turned his attention to the monk's lecture. It was a loud, condemnatory discourse about a flock into which a wolf had broken. The sheep would have been torn by the beast had not the faithful shepherd driven out the wolf and saved his charge. Heinrich knew very well who was meant by the monster threatening the poor maids of Saracenesco, and he had no doubt but that they would recognize him as the wolf in the fable. But he hoped to be able soon to teach them a better one; for he was still so much a Nazarene that he held himself to be an exceedingly proper youth, utterly incapable of sullying a maiden's virtue. When the sermon was ended, prayers were offered up for the men working in the Roman Campagna. All the women fell on their knees, outstretched both arms toward the cross, and with loud lamentations called upon the mercy of the Virgin. "Grazie, Maria, grazie!" When the small congregation had dispersed, Heinrich, moved by the scene, remained under the tree. Infinite com passion for these poor, neglected women, calling upon the clemency of heaven in behalf of their husbands, possessed him. He looked in the direction of the Campagna, above which seemed to hover the scourge of fever. A voice aroused him from his reverie. On raising his eyes he saw the Franciscan before him. Heinrich said: "It is you the faithful shepherd." "I was looking for you." "I would implore you to leave this spot - in the name of the Virgin Mary." Heinrich exclaimed: "How dare you?» With downcast eyes the monk humbly replied: "I am but performing my duty, which is to watch over the souls entrusted to my care." "And you would perform your duty, - you would protect the flock from the wolf!" "Do not scoff; hear me." "You have heard that I shall remain." "So I heard, yet I came to ask you to leave here." "You might have spared your words." As he spoke Heinrich turned and walked slowly away. The monk followed him. Keeping close to Heinrich's side, he said, still with humility: "Consider the maiden, whose mother's guest you are, and who was pleased with your light hair and blue eyes. She is a beautiful and pure creature whom you will ruin." "Enough, brother! Do not abuse my patience any longer. Farewell," exclaimed Heinrich. Nevertheless the monk repeated in a loud voice: "You will ruin the maiden." He raised his eyes. "You will ruin her in body and soul. Innocence has until now dwelt in this wild spot; you will bring guilt into this Paradise. Desist! You still have an unsullied soul; do not tarnish it with sin. Do not teach these poor creatures to see their beauty, of which they are ignorant; do not convert this divine gift into a gift of the Evil One. I warn you— I ——— The monk's voice failed him. Heinrich was horrified at the sight of his face, distorted as it was by anger. He recalled Nubia's words: "He has no power over me!” and suddenly he thought he could read the secret depths of this passionate |