old Thibaut and his second son, tak. ing Adelbert and Michel to help in the portage of the chest, slew them upon the ledge when the work was done, that there might be no witness of the hiding-place. How that, even in the dark, these two had then dared safely the peril of the cliff, and how, as was known to all, they had perished in the wood. Thinking of these things, Pierre came at length unto his home, where, wise man, he said no word unto Jeanne, his wife, as to what had that day befallen.

V.

OF THE IDLESSE OF MY LORD.

Spring flowed goldenly into breathless summer, a summer which ere it fell hung heavily upon the hands of Thibaut, Lord of Aumur. In hunting and hawking by day, in drinking and gaming by night, he sought solace for his tired soul. Even, to pass the time, he laid languid siege to the cold heart of Léon's sister, the fair Rosalys of Chateaurenard. But none of these pursuits brought surcease of that malaise which rusted his spirit. All, indeed, went too well with him for his true satisfaction. He fell into that state which led, later in history, to the pleasing diversions of bull-baiting and cock-fighting, the toys of aberrant fancy. In such a mood, Thibaut's friends found him scarcely more agreeable than his enemies. For, in the tickling of his acid humor, he was not sparing of malicious devices even to those he liked well. Rosalys had

fancies for a gallant who would fawn and flatter; who, at her word, would pluck the beard of the King of Barbary, who would dare Cerberus, would make all Hades smoke, bring, for her fair sake, discord into Heaven. And so Thibaut, while impishly feigning these ardors, these most champion transports of amorous folly, yet showed plainly to her that it was but feigning. Wherefore she took much chagrin, and balanced in affections between liking and hatred of him. Which condition hath proved many a heart's undoing.

Perigny himself, a most exact churchman, he scandalized by bitter quarrels with my Lord Bishop, and angered by adroitly dragging him, for friendship's sake, into the trouble, whereby Perigny earned the lifelong distrust of Holy Church. Aumur's wretched vassals ran like rabbits to their burrows when Thibaut, clad in black and scarlet-which colors he affected chiefly for their pride-swept with his train through the village streets. He incurred, also, the displeasure of his friend and beloved brother, the Lord of Gesny, in that he made free with that which should by no means be free, while Gesny and his lady tarried at Aumur. And in proving to this monster of jealousy that his fair spouse had been much maligned, many of the villagers of Aumur took broken crowns in loyal and loving service under the banner of the Cat. This shallow fool Gesny, however, was too soon satisfied of wrongful suspicion, and Thibaut was hard put to it for further occupation. In an ill day for an honest farmer, his thoughts turned toward Pierre of the Scar. To annoy and bait this spirited rogue would be a noble and interesting diversion.

So it came to pass that when the time turned toward harvest and the wheat was gold in the ear, Pierre came

one blue afternoon to his door in time to see a driven deer cleave a lane through his ripened field; a lane which the hunt, brave in scarlet and green, outshining the rainbow, widened under two-score horses' hooves to a fair pleasance, wherein four carriages might, with room to spare, drive abreast. Then the cavalcade, Thibaut at the head, swept shouting upward along the rise of the common toward the fringe of the forest, and Pierre went wrathfully down to cast his eye upon the wreck.

On his return he found his woman, Jeanne, weeping in the doorway.

"Oh, beasts without mercy!" she cried. "For their wanton pleasure goeth our garnering. And in a poor week cometh the tax-gatherer. Ill befall the day when the Cat goeth mousing."

"Peace, my heart," answered Pierre. "I have saved thee from the claws of the old Cat; trust me, then, to win through with the young one. An I err not widely, Thibaut hath no ill-regard of me. But he would amuse himself. Why then, let him. I tell thee, chuck, doth he ride down our crop to the last blade, we will know no pinch in the coming winter."

"Why, then, wert thou angered?" demanded Jeanne, shrewdly.

"At the wanton waste of it," answered Pierre. "Be thou easy, wife. this is but my lord's play. And I, why, I play too. Come, cheerly cheerly!"

So Thibaut, coming in the evening to discover how had prospered his most humorous invention, was much amazed that he met no sullenness, nor aught that could plumb him the depths of Pierre's annoy. To add insult to hurt also had Thibaut come, but his satiric present found ready and smiling acceptance. He came with André the forester, and Pierre, in good coun

tenance, bowed and wished his lordship good den.

Thibaut was silken of speech, but under each smooth word was the steel of his antic cruelty. It grieved him that Pierre had suffered from his friends that morn, the more so as taxday came apace.

So he did not mean to forgo the tax. What did he think a poor devil was to do? Pierre did not give tongue to these ideas, but instead, "The tax will be paid, my lord," he said.

Thus robbed he of the sting which hid, wasp-like, in the tail of Thibaut's speech.

Now passed Thibaut on to more pleasantry. He said that, out of his strict sense of justice, and in consideration of the forenoon's accident, he, knowing Pierre's taste for venison, had made bold to bring a haunch for his good rascal's acceptance.

Pierre thanked him, wished him success in his future hunting, hinted that his cornfield was always at the disposal of his good lord, and that he would feel pleased and honored each time the hunt deigned to pass through it. He lauded his master's justice and mercy, until Thibaut, in high temper at such openly feigned humility, bade André in the devil's name give the fellow the haunch and let them de. part. For, oh, monstrous! this rogue was laughing at him, the Haut Baron of Aumur and Abreuil.

Thus in anger did he ride away, swearing beneath his breath. Nor was it till his horse's hooves clattered on the stones of the causeway before the great gates of the Château that he took proper scorn to himself for his anger. What? Had he then expected Pierre's resolution to fail at the first sally? Of what use to bait a knave of such soft fibre? What vast disappointment had it been had Pierre been broken! Surely in wrath Thibaut would have hanged him. This vil

lain's cringing submission would have set his wits to work again seeking for a new game. Whereas now, what zest did not his insolence give to the thinking out of new devices? So the Lord of Aumur cheered himself, and laughed as he dismounted in the courtyard.

And Pierre, looking after his lord and André, black against the gold over the ridge, chuckled as he thought of the treasure of Aumur, and, going within, fell to upon his evening meal, at peace with the world, confident against the subtleties which wicked men are wont to practise upon the ease of the just. As Jeanne busied herself about the table, he caught her round the knees and looked up, laughing, into her face.

"Kiss me, O my heart," he said. "Lucky thou, to find a husband of wit. Shalt wear silk afore thy death-day."

She bent and kissed the scar upon his head. "Thou witless thing," she answered. "Would I could see the ending of to-day's work."

"Poppet," laughed Pierre, "have no

fear!"

VI.

OF THE JOYOUS PLAY BETWEEN THIBAUT AND HIS VASSAL.

Twice, then, did the hunt tread down the wheat of Pierre of the Scar -the once while it stood, as has been related, and the second time while in the sheaves, whereby Pierre was spared much time and labor in the threshing. But ever Pierre smiled, and Thibaut wondered greatly thereat, still more admiring how the fellow paid his taxes. And yet again was matter of bewilderment: that this sturdy rascal had always the wherewithal for a cup of wine in the village inn. That he had hoarded any wealth under the beneficent rule of the late Baron, Thibaut did not think likely. So my lord's pique led him on to devise new plays. And, plain for all

men to see, Pierre's sense of honor done unto him by this unflagging interest of the Baron's mightily uplifted his pride; while, not so plain, the treasure of Aumur warmed his hearth and his back.

A root-crop could not be so greatly damaged by the trampling of horses— at least, the damage was not so pleasantly patent to Thibaut, connoisseur in destruction. Beside, what pride could a nobleman take in the mashing of vulgar turnips? The swish of the ripe wheat, the trampled lane behind the rider, were pleasant to hear and to look upon. But the dull turnip! Morbleu! Ungraceful, banal turnip!

Wherefore, when Pierre put in his root-crop, Thibaut cudgelled his malicious wit, cursing the season which no longer would be host to the golden wheat. How to damage, how to discourage these vile vegetables? Quickly he hit the mark: one can but admire his ingenuity.

For Léon Perigny, among other monkish vices, was a hunter of antiquities; as ill content to allow a Roman coin or flint arrow-head peaceful to rest in the earth, as was Thibaut to permit the same boon to Pierre's turnips. And Aumur, working upon this shallow foppishness with some tale of a Roman camp of old which had lain under the hill, backed with a certain derivation, as: Altum murum— Haut mur-Aumur-the former distinctly a Roman name-readily egged on his friend to research within his domains. So for a month Perigny surveyed Thibaut's estate, helped by the lord thereof, who, in good sooth, proved himself a savant of much enthusiasm and good direction. For, indeed, it was Thibaut himself who al last discovered that the Prætorium of his ancient camp undoubtedly stood where now, by the grace of God, flourished those loathsome turnips of Pierre.

They flourished no longer. An army of forced labor descended upon the farm, and Pierre's field was dug, under the able direction of Perigny, as it had never been dug before. It was unfortunate that early in his operations the scientist really found one bronze coin, for the discovery heartened him to such purpose that before he gave up the search, a pit some fifty paces wide and almost as deep yawned in the centre of the unhappy holding. Only the solid rock stopped excavation which would have opened Tartarus, for Perigny was very earnest and thorough in his follies. Indeed, led on by that battered denarius, he wished to explore all the farms on the estate, and to level the village inn; but here the discretion of Thibaut was forced to intervene. Whereat Perigny, his antiquarian ardor cruelly checked, departed on the tail of winter to his Château, declaiming against all friendships, which, quoth he, were light things and disappointing, and unworthy the deep thought of serious men. In such temper was he as causeth many damsels to give themselves to the Church-though what good the Church takes in the acquirement of sulky baggages it is full hard to see.

Thibaut condoled with his ill-used vassal, and craftily-with an eye to his future amusement-offered to have the villagers fill up the pit. But Pierre, now heartily entering into the spirit of the proceedings, besought his lord to take no concern about the matter. For he had now, he declared, the noblest cockpit in all France; he would take delight in fighting many a main therein. He would plant his wheat about the pit in the remaining acreage. But one thing truly grieved him: that the noble friends of Thibaut must hunt with caution in future lest their august necks be broken in crossing his humble field. With humility and reverence in his face, and laughter

in his sleeve, the varlet thus delivered himself. And so Thibaut, as his taxes were still marvellously paid, had perforce to send ferrets into the darkest furrows of his brain to have out its inmost mischief.

It was while on a visit to Chateaurenard that his new idea came to him. He sat one evening upon the terrace with Léon and the fair Rosalys, idly watching the sun set over Perigny's broad domain. A cloudless sky, a gleam of water among far-off trees, the shrill song of an early cigala from the grass-all the gentle influences of a spring evening attuned his heart to a poetic melancholy. It was, after all, inexpressibly sad, this living. Why could one never possess all one's desire? Not of Rosalys was his thought,

she, he knew, was his for the asking. But that unspeakable varlet, Pierre, troubled his noble spirit. How to crush his stubborn soul; to make him cry "enough"; to bring him fawning to the feet of his proper lord. Why, the rogue langhed in his face. These casual harassments still left him cheerful, slid from his merriment like rain from sloping eaves. Thibaut longed for some continual device, which, like the bottomless urns of the Daughters of Danaos, should work from day to day and from dawn to dusk. And then, as though in answer to his wish, an immense flock of pigeons whirred overhead homing to their cote behind the Château.

Léon frowned. "They multiply," he said. "Morbleu! how they multiply! It is too much; the farmers complain. Rosalys, I cannot give in longer to your fancies. The rents find them'selves put off unpaid. Thus it runs: 'I cannot, my lord, this week. The pigeons eat the sprouting grain.'

"In good sooth, brother," answered Rosalys, "do as thou wilt. They in deed multiply and as for me, I cannot love so many." Thus she spake to impress upon Thibaut the sweet obedience of her sisterhood.

But he oh, strange, when killing was toward-pleaded for the birds' lives. As for the canaille, let them complain.

Léon was firm. He did not love the canaille more than did his brother of Aumur, but he had more love for lucre. The taxes must be considered before the pleasure of annoying the farmers. The pigeons, therefore, should undoubtedly perish.

Thibaut pulled at his lip. "If it must be, my Léon, that thou should'st rid thyself of them, why not give them to me? I love them well, the beautiful birds, and they may amuse my Pierre. A thousand! Two thousand! Bien! They multiply. I will send my rascals with carts and baskets. I will build dove-cotes. Yea; as many as thou canst spare."

Léon waved his page to him. "Sirrah," he said languidly, "thou hearest what my lord saith. Tell Simon, then, to catch the birds. Go." He rose from his seat. "Come, Thibaut, let us in. The air grows chill." The Pall Mall Magazine.

Thibaut touched Perigny's shoulder, glancing at Rosalys, who blushed. For now she learned this ruddy trick of love; her heart was no longer ice.

"Brother," quoth he of Aumur, "while thy vein is giving, I have still another thing to beg of thee."

"It is thine," conceded Perigny, magnificently. "What is it?"

"Nay," answered Thibaut, "not now. This night, at thy leisure, Léon."

So, at Perigny's leisure over the cards and the cups was it settled that the Lord of Aumur in Gascony and of Abreuil in Bretagne should on, the fall of August, wed with Rosalys of Chateaurenard. Right glad indeed was Perigny, for there was no man living, he said, to whom he would part more readily with aught in his gift. Over the loving-cup he said it, and Thibaut acknowledged the compliment as befitted.

"And now," declared he, "I return at daybreak to-morrow to Aumur, my Léon. My men shall bring wagons ere night for the pigeons."

"The pigeons?" cried Perigny. "What pigeons? Ah, yes-of course. I had forgotten." He looked at Thi baut curiously. "Eh, bien, Thibaut! Thou art a droll lover."

Howard Ashton.

Philosophers in all ages have felt themselves called upon to take up the challenge which death throws down to man. "We are wrong to fear it," said Socrates, "for it is, perhaps, our greatest good on earth." To Epicurean as to Stoic the fear or hatred of death was plainly opposed to right reason. "Death is nothing to us," says Epicurus in his "Maxims," "for he who is once dissolved into his elements is incapable of

feeling, and that which is not felt is nothing to us." So in a long series of philosophic testimony to Schopenhauer, "After us is nothing, and, therefore, why should we disturb ourselves about what comes after us? Is it not just as irrational as to fear that which was before us? The nothing which lies in wait for us, and the nothing which preceded us, are of the same value." Always the same misunder