 3. If a man take a life, should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed? Such was the question that the man asked. He was looking at the trapper at the time, looking at him steadily, but the sound of his voice, as he put the question, did not seem to give personal direction to the solemn interrogation. It seemed rather the echo of a reflection, as if his own mind in its communings had come upon the terrible question, and the words without volition of his own, which framed it into speech, had passed out of his mouth. He was looking at the trapper, as we said, and the trapper was looking into the fire, the light of which, that came and went, and flashes brought distinctly out the subtle gravity of the features and the rugged about grand proportions of the head. There is no better light in which to see an old man's face than the fitful firelight, and no better background than that which the darkness makes. One would have thought that the interrogation was not heard, for on the trapper's face there showed no line of change. The girl remained looking steadfastly into the face of the questioner, and Herbert made no response. I ask you a question, old trapper, said the man, a question which reaches to the depths of human responsibility, and points to the heights of human sacrifice. In the old days the wisdom of the world was with those who lived with nature. Your head is white, and you tell me you have lived in the woods since you were a boy. You have seen war, have stood in battle, have slain your man, and made many graves of those you have slain. Have you wisdom? Are you able to answer the question I have asked you? I have, as you say, answered the trapper, been in wars, have stood in battle, have slain men, have buried those I have slain. I know what it is to take a human creator's life, and I think I know where the right to do the deed stops and where it begins. Where does it begin? asked the man, where does the right to take human life begin? The words came forth slowly and heavily weighted with meaning. It was evident that the question which the man asked was not asked as one interrogates, but as one puts a question that has personal application to himself. The trapper felt this, he looked into the man's face, and studied his countenance a moment, noted the breadth of brow, the large, deep set eyes, the fine curvature of the chin and cheek, saw the beauty and splendor of it, saw what some might not have seen, both the beauty of its peaceful mood and the terribleness of the wrath that might surge out of it, saw all this and, without answering the question, said simply, you have killed a man. The stranger looked steadily back into the trapper's face and answered as simply, yes, I am a murderer. Herbert started a trifle. The girl gave a slight exclamation and lifted her hand as if in protest. The trapper alone made reply, yes, certainly don't look like a murderer, friend. He is none. He is none, exclaimed the girl. He had provocation, old man. He had provocation. And then she turned toward the man and said, why will you say such things? Why will you condemn yourself wrongly? Why do you brood over a deed done in wrath and under the strain that few might resist as it had been done in cold blood and with a murderous malice and forethought of evil? The man listened to her gravely with a kind of considerate patience in the look of his face, waited a moment when she had finished as one might wait from the habit of politeness, and then, without answering her, said, you have not answered my question, old trapper. I cannot answer it. I certainly can't answer it, friend, unless I know the circumstances of the killing. For there be killing, there be right, and there be killing, there be wrong. Unless I know the circumstances of the killing, my words would be like the words of a boy that talks in council without knowing what he's talking. If you killed a man, how did you kill him? I killed him face to face, answered the man. He paused a moment and then repeated, face to face. Why did you kill him? asked the trapper. Had he done you wrong? He was my friend, said the man. My friend, true and tried. Had he done you a wrong? persisted the trapper. What is wrong? asked the man. I can't tell whether he had done me wrong or nay. I only know he had crossed my purpose, stopped me from doing what I had set my heart on doing, and what I set my heart on doing, old man, I do. And the man's eyes darkened under the abundant brow and the face tightened and contracted as a rope when a strain is upon it. The man came between me and my purpose, he added. He stood up and faced me and said I should not do what I propose to do and should not have what I had sworn to have. And I killed him where he stood. It was astonishing how quietly the words were said, considering the tremendous energy of will which was charged into and through their quietness. He had no right to do it, said the girl. He had no right to do it. It was none of his business and you know it wasn't. And she spoke apparently to the man. Oh, sir, why do you not tell them that he was an intermedler and meddled with what was none of his business? Kindled you to rage by his meddling and that you slew him in your rage thoughtlessly, unintentionally? Why do you not tell them these things? The man listened to her again politely. There was a look of grave courtesy in his eye as he have turned his face and looked upon her as she was speaking. But beyond this there was no recognition that he heard her. When she had finished, he turned his face again toward the trapper and said, old trapper, you've not answered my question. Has a man a right to take life? Startling answered the trapper. How? Ask the man. In war, answered the trapper. In any other way, queried the man. Yes, in self defense. Any other cause persisted the stranger? Not as a rule, answered the trapper. After this there was a silence. The girl's head dropped into her two palms. And for an instant her frame shook as one contesting the passage of a strong feeling that insists on expression. The three men made no motion but sat silently gazing into the fire. For several minutes the silence lasted. There are two living that will never forget that silence. Then the man lifted his face and said, old trapper, have you ever known remorse? I can't say I ever did, answered the trapper. Though I felt a little uneasy, I ordered to deal him with the Theven Bagobons, whose tracks I've found on the line of my traps. It has seemed to me sometimes in the evening and thinking the matter over, that perhaps a little less bullet and a little more scripture might have did just as well. But a man is apt to be a little harsh in his anger. But I have an idea that the Lord makes some allowance for a man's doing when he's a good deal riled. That's where the mercy comes in. Yes, that's where the mercy comes in, and that boy and the old man looked at Herbert. There is certainly where we need the mercy to come in, answered Herbert. But it were better that we acted so that the mercy need not be shown. The man listened to Herbert's reply with an expression of strong assent on his countenance, and then he turned to the trapper. You say, old man, that you never knew remorse. Happy has your life been because of it, and happy shall your life be to its close. I have known remorse. It is a fearful knowledge, as fearful as the knowledge of hell. Woe to the man that does an evil deed. That instant he is doomed, doomed to anguish. His divinity punishes him. Within his bosom the great tribunal is instantly set up. The judge takes his seat, the witnesses are summoned, and the whole universe swarms to the trial. His memory is a torment, and all the forces of his mind suddenly concentrate in memory, the memory of one deed, or of many deeds, even as his sin has been soul or manifold. What torment, old man, is like the torment of one whose memory is confined wholly to his evil deeds. No one made any reply. The anguish of the man's speech made response impossible. Before I did the deed, he continued, after a pause, my memory took knowledge of all sweet things, of all dear faces I have ever seen, of all generous and blessed deeds I had ever done. But after that, I could remember but one thing, the murderer, only one face, the face of him I killed, and all my life and the glory of it was thrown into black eclipse by that one terrible act. Before I did the deed, nature was a joy to me, but now in every star I see his countenance looking down upon me. In every flower I see his still cold face. The winds bear to me his voice. The water of those rapids, and the man stretched his hand out toward the flowing river, sounds to me like the rattle in his throat as he lay dying. How shall I find release, old man? How quit myself of this terrible curse? And the man's words ended in a groan. The mercy of the Lord be great, replied the trapper, greater than indeed a guilt did by mortal. Great enough to cover you, friend, and your misdoing, as the mother covers the error of her child with her forgiveness. I know the mercy of the Lord is great, answered the man. I know his forgiveness covers all. But the old law, old as the world, old as guilt and justice, the law of life for life and blood for blood, has never been repealed. And this is the one comfort left for the noble, that however great the guilt, however wicked the deed, the atonement can be as great as the sin. He who dies pays all debts. He who has sent one to the grave and goes to the grave voluntarily, goes into the arms of mercy. I know not where else, with all his searching, man may surely find it. Again there was silence. Above, the stars shone warmly through the dusky gloom. The rapids roared, falling hoarsely through the darkness. A moaning ran along the pine tops. The firelight flamed and flickered, and the flames flashed the four faces into sight that were grouped around the brands. At length the trapper said, What is it you have in your heart to do, friend? I took a life, answered the man. I must give one in return. I took a life, and my life is forfeited. This is my condemnation, and I pronounce it on myself. My judge is not above. My judge is within. In this the world finds protection, and in this the sinner finds release from sin. There is no other way, at least no other way, so perfect. One man was great enough to die for the sins of others. They who would rise to the level of his life must be great enough to lay down their life for their own sins. This is justice, and out of such true justice blooms the perfect mercy. To this the man added thoughtfully, There is but one objection. What is the objection? asked Herbert. What is the objection if one be great enough to make so great a sacrifice? The objection, answered the man, is found in this. It is so deep a sin to kill. It is so easy a thing to die. For what is death? The ignorant dread it because they do not analyze it. Their lack of thoughtfulness makes them cowardly, for death is going out of bondage into liberty. He who passes through the dark gate finds himself when he has passed, standing in the cloudless sunshine. In dying the powerful become glad, the small become greater, and if they die rightly the sinful become sinless. If a great motive prompts us to death, it is the perfect regeneration. Entering thus the new life, man is born anew, and so in punishment the great law of mercy stands revealed, and sin leads up to sinlessness. In such travail of soul he who suffers through suffering is satisfied. It is sublime philosophy, exclaimed Herbert, but few are great enough to practice it. Rather, sir, exclaimed the man, few are knowing enough to accept it. The eyes of men through their ignorance are blinded by fear, and they see not the delivering gates, though they stand facing the open passage. Well, life is sweet. The words fell from the lips of Herbert as if they spoke themselves. To the innocent life is sweet, answered the man, but to the guilty life is bitterness. The world was not made for the guilty, the beauties and glories of it were not for them. The universe is not sustained for them. Only for the good do things exist. The breasts of life are full, but their nourishment is not for guilty lips to draw. I have seen the time when life was sweet. I have lived to see the time when life is bitter. Through death I go out of bitterness into sweetness. This is the mercy that is unto all and which all can take, take freely. Some get it through another. All might get it through themselves. It is a violent deed to kill oneself, said the trapper. You mistake, answered the man, there is of course rude way. There is a fine noble way. I have power, said the man, to lay down my life, and I have power to take it again. Do you not think, old trapper, that a man can die when he wills? I don't understand you, answered the trapper. The soul rules the body, replied the stranger. The soul is not bound to the body. It lives in it, as a man lives in his house. My body is only my environment. I can quit it at will. I can go out of it. Do you mean to say, asked Herbert, that we can leave our bodies through determination of purpose and mental decision? There have been such cases, answered the man, and such cases there might be continually. If the relations between the soul and the body are recognized and the supreme authority of the one over the other allowed full action, the soul can do anything it pleases. It can come and it can go. This is my faith. While the foregoing conversation was being conducted, the girl had remained silent. Herbert sat opposite to her, and as the firelight flamed her face into sight, he could not but note the expression of it. The look of her face was that of one who was listening to what she had heard before, perhaps many times before, and which, upon the hearing, she had combatted and was determined to continue to combat. And at this point she suddenly spoke up. I think, sir, and she lifted her eyes to the face of the man, that the living should live for the living rather than die for the dead. For the dead have no wants, neither of the body nor of the heart, neither of the mind nor the soul. For if they want, God feeds them. But the living want and crave and have deep needs, and God feeds not at all, unless through us who live. It is our duty to do and not to die. The words were clearly and slowly spoken, spoken in a quiet but determined tone. The old trapper raised his face and looked at the girl as if surprised at the wisdom of her speech. Herbert was already looking at her. The man slowly turned his face towards her and said, Mary, we have argued that point before. The tone in which he spoke was not one of rebuke, and yet it conveyed the idea that the point was settled and was not to be reopened. The girl waited a moment respectfully, as if she felt profound deference for the other's character and would not willingly oppose his wish. And then she said, I know, sir, we have discussed it before, but it is not settled and never can be settled, for it sets in comparison the value of two lives, the one that was and the one that is. And I say that there are lives, of which yours is one, that belong to others and cannot be disposed of as if they were a selfish thing. And life is a truer atonement for sin than death. You owe more than one debt, and you have no right to pay the one, however great it is, if by the paying of that you leave the other unpaid. Fran, said the trapper, the girl speaks wisdom. This way she brings matter into the council, which men of gravity should not overlook. The living certainly have claims. What can you say to her speech? For a moment the man made no reply, and then he said, My philosophy is based upon a sentiment, a sentiment born of conscience, and conscience makes duty for us all. There is no reasoning against conscience. It is the voice of God, the only God we have. My conscience tells me that there is but one atonement that I can make. There is no election. I must do it. What good, said Herbert, addressing the man, what good will you do by dying? I shall satisfy myself, said the man. And what right have you to satisfy yourself in such a matter, exclaimed the girl? What right have any of us to satisfy ourselves? What right have we to be selfish in our death any more than in our life? Oh, sir, if you saw rightly you would see that you had no right to satisfy yourself in this dreadful way. You should satisfy others. They need you even as the poor need the rich, as the weak need the strong, as those who are prone, because they cannot lift themselves, need one who is strong enough to lift them. It is not heroic to die unless the full object of life is met by the dying. It is heroic to live because it is harder than dying. Even death dedicated to atonement can be a greater sin than the deed which one would atone. I know not how the girl has such wisdom, said the trapper, for she be young, and yet she certainly seems to me to have the right of it. I know not who you be nor how many look to you for help, but if you be one that can help and that there be many that need your help, I certainly concede that you should live to help them. You say right. You say right, old man, exclaimed the girl. His life is not a common life. It represents such power and faculty and opportunity, and I may say such devotion to the many that it does not belong to him, and may not therefore be disposed of as if he owned it himself and had the right to do with it as he pleased. I do not say, answered the man, that I own my life. I say rather that I do not own it. I owe it. There are debts you cannot pay by life. The laws of the whole world recognize this, nor do we do by living the greatest service. He who dies to uphold a righteous principle fulfills all righteousness. He who gives away a life in atonement for a life taken makes all life more sacred, and so he serves the living beyond all other service he might do. She looks at individuals. I observe principles. She contemplates only the present. I forecast the future needs of men. Moreover, the highest service one can do man is to serve himself in the highest manner. He who ministers to his own sense of justice strengthens the judicial sense of the world. Men overvalue life when they suppose that there is nothing better. To teach them that there is something better, to impress them by some signal event that there is something higher and nobler than mere living, is to fulfill all benevolence to their souls. How many the Savior could feed and heal and bless by avoiding Calvary. And yet he did not avoid it. He showed the object of life, which is service. I trust I have not wholly failed to show men that. He then showed the highest object of dying, which is service. Why should I not imitate him? Why should I not be a law unto myself and bear the penalty voluntarily? The man rose to his feet, as he concluded, and looked at the trapper and Herbert, and said, gentlemen, I thank you for your hospitality and courtesy. And, turning to the girl, he said, Mary, we will talk this matter over more fully by ourselves. And then he bowed to the group and turned away. 4. Long after the man and the girl had departed, the trapper and Herbert sat by their campfire, discussing the question which their guest had propounded. Their conversation was grave and deliberate, as became the theme, and they united in the opinion that if the deed had been done in anger elicited by a provocation, the man should give himself the favor which the law even would allow under similar circumstances. I tell you, Herbert, said the trapper, the girl said the man had caused, least wise, that the man whom he struck worried him to it, and that the blow was given in anger. Now, hot blood is hot blood, and cold blood is cold blood. And if a man killed another man in cold blood, it'd be murder. The law says so, and what is better, nature says so. But if a man kill another man in his anger when his blood is up and he is strongly provoked to it, the law says there be a difference, and it isn't murder. And I concede that the girl be right, that the man had no right in nature or law either to murder himself, because in his anger he murdered another man. And besides, continued the old man, after a moment's pause, during which he had evidently made an effort at memory, if there be any wrath in the case it belonged to the Lord and not to man. You may recall the verse, Henry. Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord. Such was the quotation Herbert made. Thartonly, thartonly, answered the trapper, that is it. Vengeance is the Lord, and he is the one that can handle it rightly, and the man had better leave it to the Lord. For several moments Herbert made no reply, and then, as if speaking to himself more than his companion, he said, How the girl loves him. You have headed, Henry, answered the trapper promptly. Yes, you have headed at the center, on note at her face, the look in her eyes, and the earnestness of her boys. There's no doubt about the matter of the lovin'. She is one of the quiet kind, boy, and she has got the faculty a listenin' a long time, which isn't natural to a woman. But when she speaks, you can see what she is. She has a quiet face, but a determined spirit. I've seen several of the same sort. I've seen them a fourth of the battle, and art'er the battle, and I know what's in the heart of the girl. Yes, I know what's in the heart of the girl, and the old man looked at his companion across the campfire. The young man returned his gaze, and then said quietly, What is in the heart of the girl, John Norton? At the man dies, the girl dies too. Answered the trapper, and, stooping, he pushed a brand into the center of the fire. It is awful to think so, replied the young man. It is awful to think that one so lovely should die so miserable. She belongs to the kind that does seen things, answered the sapper. But whether you can call her dying miserable, I certainly doubt, for there be some that can't die miserable, owe unto their feelings. And I've noted that them who die feel in a certain way die happy whenever they die. But death means one thing to one, and another thing to another. And the heart that has lost all is happy to go in search of it, even if it be along the trail that the sun never shines on. And so the two men sat and talked, feeding the campfire with sticks occasionally as they talked. They wondered who the man was and whence he came. Wondered if he would change his views, and if the girl could win him over to a rational way of looking at the deed that had been done, and the true way to atone for it. Wondered if they could not assist her in her loving task when the morning came. Talked and wondered and planned, and at last wrapping their blankets around them, they laid down to sleep. The last words spoken were by the trapper, and were these, we will over in the morning herbert and out the girl. And then they slept. Beyond the balsam thicket by another campfire, the girl and the man sat talking, talking of the deed that had been done, and the atonement demanded, and of the great future beyond this present life, the future that stretches away endlessly, the future of peace to some, perhaps to all, who knows. But there be some who think that this life has in it such forces of education, such enlightenment to the understanding, such quickening to the conscience, such ripening of character, and that through its experiences, its trials and its griefs, come such graces to the souls of those that leave it, that when they pass, they leave their worst self behind them, even as the germ leaves the shock out of which it sprouted, leaves the dull, damp ground, forever, while it groweth up into the sunlight in which it finds perfection. Mary said the man, I have done with the past, my mind turns wholly toward the future. I see it as the shipwrecked sailor sees the land, which if he can but reach, he will not only be beyond the storm that wrecks him, but beyond all storms forever. Companion of my joys and companion of my grief, companion in everything but in my sin, counsel with me, with your eyes turned ahead, you are innocent, and innocence is prophetic. What lies beyond this world and the life men live in it? What of good waits for him who gives up this life bravely and penitently, and trusts himself to the decisions and the certainties of the great hereafter? My master said the girl, it is not for me to teach you, you who are so much greater than I, you who have been gifted with faculties and powers that have lifted you above men. What can I say to you, save to repeat what you have said to me? Mary, he replied, talked to me from out your heart and not from out your mind. The prophecies that come to men from heaven, heaven has communicated through the emotions of the just and the pure and not through the perceptions. Tell me of the faith of your heart, the heart which I know has been free of guile. Tell me of the great hereafter and what awaits me there. The hereafter, said the girl, and she lifted her eyes lovingly to the face of the man. The hereafter is the same as here, only larger, as things grown are larger than things ungrown. The future is to the present what the river is to the stream, what the stream is to the fountain. It is the flowing out and the flowing on, the widening and the deepening of what is. Is there no gap, no breakage, no chasm or gulf between the here and the hereafter? asked the man. No, said the girl, there is no gap nor chasm nor gulf, but continuity of progress and perfect sequence. The connections between the known and the unknown are perfect. The one does not end and the other begin. Time is the beginning of eternity and the brief time that men call a day is only a fraction of endlessness. There is no end to life then, queried the man. End to life, exclaimed the girl. How can life end? Life changes its form, its embodiment, the location of his residence, but life is the breath of God, and when once breathed into the universe and it has taken form and made for itself expression, who may annihilate it? Who may take it out of existence? No master, there is no end to life. It is a sublime faith, said the man, and I have proclaimed it unto many, but few have been great enough to receive the doctrine as a verity. In theory they have received it, but their superstition has robbed them of its mighty consolations. But if we do not die, but only pass forward as men go out of a city's gate along a road that has no end, what fate befalls them? Does a change of nature come to them? Only such as comes through growth, answered the girl. Shall I be just as I am when I have passed into the great future? He asked. You will be the same, answered the girl, only more abundantly yourself. We are all our life looking for ourselves, continued the girl, and few, if any, find themselves until they die. I don't understand, said the man. I know the Lord is speaking through you, for you are uttering truth so great that at the utterance they seem mysteries. Explain as the teacher explains to the child she is trying to teach. I mean, answered the girl, that death is an enlightenment and a discovery. It will give us revelations of ourselves, for never do we find him save as we find him in his, and we are his. You will not know who and what you are until you get far enough ahead, my master, to look back upon yourself. We must go up and go on a long way before we know what we are now. Here the conversation paused for a while, and nothing disturbed the profound silence, but the roar of the rapids, whose ceaseless sound swelled and sank in the silence like the waves of the sea. At length the man said, Have you thought of the land ahead? Is it real? And where is it? And what the life lived there? Why do you ask me such questions, answered the girl, when you know that I have thought only as you have taught me to think. But repeating the faith I learned from your lips, surely there is a land ahead, or rather many lands, lands and seas and blessed islands in the seas where the blessed live, and loves and lovers and homes exquisitely and endlessly peaceful are there, and men who have grown nobler than they were here, and women far sweeter than their short life here might make them live and love in the lands ahead. The girl spoke low but earnestly, and her words sounded on the silent air like softly breathed music, so much did her sweet self possess her words. And the man listened as men listened to music when it comes softly and sweetly to their ears. Mary said the man, You make the life ahead seem so sweet that I shrink from entering it, lest by so doing I escape the punishment for my sin I would feign inflict upon myself. Oh, master, exclaimed the girl, you do mistake, for though I do believe all I have said and would trust myself to the far future, as young eagles trust themselves to the warm air when they have grown equal to the joy of flight, yet the life of this earth is sweet, so sweet when the heart is satisfied that one might fear to exchange it for another, as one fears to part with what fully satisfies, even though the promise of more abundant things is sure as God. It is sweet to breathe the airs of the earth as health receives them, tis sweet to live and love and serve in loving and find your happiness in giving it, tis sweet to teach and guide men up and on to wider knowledge and nobler living, to make them gentler and finer in their thoughts and happier hearted, and oh, my master, tis sweet to live with one you love, be unto him a new life daily, and see him grow in your growth, matching it, and so go on in that perfect companionship that the future may give to us as the highest fortune, and having given has given its best and all. You shall live, answered the man, you shall live and have as you deserve, dear girl, and if I have taught you ought, which being known as made or shall make your life on earth sweeter, take it as my legacy to you. I had thought to leave you something more, perhaps something better, but that is past. I will not take your legacy and stay, answered the girl, I will rather take it and go with you, that where you are I may be with you. You have promised nothing, and I want no promise. I have only asked one thing, and only one thing now do I ask, and that you will not hold from me, for I have earned it, earned it by patient serving and by growth, that you know came from you. What is it that you ask? Tell me, replied the man, for you shall have it if it be in the power of my giving. Companionship, answered the girl, the companionship of service. My mind must serve your mind, for only so may it find its growth for which it longs. You have led me from darkness to light, and into what future light you advance, I must enter too. I love you as women love men, but I love you more than that. I love you for what you are, separated from what you can ever be to me. I love you as a mind. I love you as a soul. I love you as a spirit. I love you with a purity, with an ambition, with a longing that men cannot interpret and earthly relations cannot express. But which God understands and which in his heaven I know there must be a name for, and a connection that is known through all the social life of heaven. It must not be, answered the man. I admit your claim, but it must not be. Why must it not be, asked the girl. The man hesitated a moment and then he said, because my future is uncertain. I dare not say what it will be. I care not what it is, answered the girl. Whatever it is that I share, share, because I cannot help it. It is not a question of condition, but of presence. With you I could bear all misery. Yea, in the misery find happiness. Without you my heart could feel no joy throughout eternity. Master, my master, I love you so. And as she looked into the face of the man, there came to her countenance the expression of utter devotion, and in her large eyes tears gathered, and having formed from them fell slowly. The man groaned aloud and said, Alas! Alas! My curse is doubled being brought on thee. There is no curse on thee, or me, she answered. You were but mortal, and being sorely tempted did a wicked deed, but no single deed can change the nature. You are the same great man, great in your goodness, as you are great in power, and my love too remains the same. Nay, master, it is greater. You should stay and live, and make atonement by living, for you cannot live and not better men. You can do deeds that would wipe out the deadliest guilt. But if you will not stay, if to you it seems right to die, and if only through death your sense of justice can be met, and yourself find peace, then neither will I stay, but go, go where thou goest. Yea, I will sink or rise with thee, go to this world or that, I care not which or where, if only I may go with thee. And I pray thee not to think it hard for me to share thy journey. Why should I be left behind, and what might I have, thou being gone? What pleasure in all the world could I find with thee out of it? I have no home, thy presence is my home. I have no kindred, and no loves await me anywhere. How could I have, loving thee? For in thee I have found father, and mother, brother, and sister, and all sweet relationships. And so, whither thou goest, let me go, and where thou stayest, let me stay. Do not resist me, but be persuaded, and let me die with thee. So shall we, passing out of these mortal bodies in the self-same hour, be together still. The man made no response, but sat silently gazing at her face. In a moment the girl moved softly to his side and took his hand in hers, and so they sat together while the fire-light died away, and the darkness enveloped them. But through the darkness the stars beamed mildly, as if they expressed the sweet mercy which the imaginations of men picture as thrown above the azure in whose blue field they stand suspended. What happened farther is known only to him whose eyes see through all darkness and to whom the night is as the day. During the night the trapper started suddenly from his sleep. Was it a woman's cry, he heard? Was it only such a sound as comes to us at times in dreams? He listened, but heard nothing save the monotonous murmur of the rapids and the equally steady movement of the night breeze stirring through the pine tops. He listened, and hearing nothing, lay down again and slept. The morning came, came as brightly and cheerfully as if the world knew no sorrow, and the men and women in it had no griefs. The morning came, but before it came, a wing darker than the shadow of the night had passed over the world. For when the trapper and his companion visited the camp beyond the balsam thicket, they found the two lying side by side, the girl's head on the bosom of the man, and her right hand lying gently in his, no mark of violence on their bodies, no instrument of death near, lying as if they had fallen asleep. The man's countenance in grave repose, the girl's blessedly peaceful, no name on either, no scrap of paper that might tell who they might be. Perhaps the man's faith was true, perhaps the will has power to will itself, and all of life there is in us out of the body. Be this, as it may, the trapper and his companion only saw this. The unknown man in the prime of his strength, lying dead under the pines, and the girl in her loveliness, lying dead by his side. Hill, a battle where the carnage was more frightful, as it seems to me, than in any this side of the Alleghenies during the whole war, that my story must begin. I was then serving as major in the Blankth Massachusetts Regiment, the Old Blankth, as we used to call it, and a bloody time the boys had of it too. About two p.m. we had been sent out to Skirmish along the edge of the wood, in which, as our general suspected, the Rebs lay massing for a charge across the slope, upon the crest of which our army was posted. We had barely entered the underbrush, when we met the heavy formations of Magruder in the very act of charging. Of course, our thin line of Skirmishers was no impediment to those onrushing masses. They were on us and over us before we could get out of the way. I do not think that half of those running, screaming masses of men ever knew that they had passed over the remnants of as plucky a regiment as ever came out of the old Bay state. But many of the boys had good reason to remember that afternoon, at the base of Malvern Hill, and I among the number. For when the last line of Rebs had passed over me, I was left among the bushes, with the breath nearly trampled out of me, and an ugly bayonet gash through my thigh. And mighty little consolation was it for me, at that moment, to see the fellow who ran me through lying stark dead at my side, with a bullet hole in his head, his shock of coarse black hair matted with blood, and his stony eyes looking into mine. Well, I bandaged up my limb, as best I might, and started to crawl away, for our batteries had opened, and the grape and canister that came hurtling down the slope passed but a few feet over my head. It was slow and painful work, as you can imagine, but at last, by dent of perseverance, I had dragged myself away to the left of the direct range of the batteries, and, creeping to the verge of the wood, looked off over the green slope. I understood, by the crash and roar of the guns, the yells and cheers of the men, and that horse murmur, which those who have been in battle know, but which I cannot describe in words, that there was hot work going on out there. But never have I seen, no, not in that three days desperate may lay at the wilderness, nor at that terrific repulse we had at Gold Harbor, such absolute slaughter as I saw that afternoon on the green slope of Malvern Hill. The guns of the entire army were massed on the crest, and thirty thousand of our infantry lay must get in hand in front. For eight hundred yards, the hill sank in easy to clench into the wood, and across this smooth expanse the revs must charge to reach our lines. It was nothing short of downright insanity to order men to charge that hill, and so his generals told Lee, but he would not listen to reason that day, and so he sent regiment after regiment, and brigade after brigade, and division after division to certain death. Talk about Grant's disregard of human life. His efforts at Gold Harbor, and I ought to know, for I got a mini in my shoulder that day, was hopeful and easy work to what Lee laid on hills and Magruder's divisions at Malvern. It was at the close of the second charge, when the yelling mass reeled back from before the blaze of those sixty guns, and thirty thousand rifles, even as they began to break and fly backward toward the woods, that I saw from the spot where I lay a riderless horse break out of the confused and flying mass, and with main and tally wrecked, and spreading nostril, came dashing obliquely down the slope. Overfallen steeze and heaps of the dead she leaped with emotion, as airy as that of the flying fox, when fresh and unjaded he leads away from the hounds, whose sudden cry has broken him off from hunting mice amid the bogs of the meadow. So this riderless horse came vaulting along. Now from my earliest boyhood I have had what horsemen call a weakness for horses. Only give me a colt of wild irregular temper and fierce blood to tame, and I am perfectly happy. Never did lash of mine, singing with cruel sound through the air, fall on such a colt's soft hide. Never did yell or kick send his hot blood from heart to head, deluging his sensitive brain with fiery currents driving him into frenzy or blinding him with fear. But touches soft and gentle as a woman's caressing words, and oaths given from the open palm, and unfailing kindness were the means I used to subjugate him. Sweet subjugation both to him who subdues, and to him who yields. The wild, unmanorly, unmanageable colt, the fear of horsemen, the country round, finding in you not an enemy, but a friend, receiving his daily food from you, and all those little nothings which go as far with a horse as a woman, to win and retain affection, grows to look upon you as his protector and friend, and testifies in countless ways his fondness for you. So when I saw this horse with action so free and motion so graceful, amid that storm of bullets, my heart involuntarily went out to her, and my feelings rose higher and higher at every leap she took from amid the whirlwind of fire and lead. And as she plunged at last over a little hillock out of range, and came careering toward me as only a riderless horse might come, her head flung wildly from side to side, her nostrils wildly spread, her flank and shoulders flecked with foam, her eyes dilating, I forgot my wound, and all the wild roar of battle, and lifting myself involuntarily to a sitting posture, as she swept grandly by, gave her a ringing cheer. Perhaps in the sound of a human voice of happy mood amid the awful den she recognized a resemblance to the voice of him whose blood moistened her shoulders and was even yet dripping from saddle and housing. Be that as it may, no sooner had my voice sounded than she flung her head with a proud upward movement into the air, swerved sharply to the left, nade as she might to a master at morning from her stall, and came trotting directly up to where I lay, and pausing looked down upon me as it were in compassion. I spoke again and stretched out my hand caressingly. She pricked her ears, took a step forward, and lowered her nose until it came in contact with my palm. Never did I fondle anything more tenderly, never did I see an animal which seemed so to court and appreciate human tenderness as that beautiful mare. I say beautiful, no other word might describe her, never will her image fade from my memory while memory lasts. In weight she might have turned when well conditioned nine hundred and fifty pounds. In color she was a dark chestnut with a velvety depth and soft look about the hair, indescribably rich and elegant. Many a time have I heard ladies dispute the shade and hue of her plush light coat, as they ran their white, jeweled fingers through her silk and hair. Her body was round in the barrel and perfectly symmetrical. She was wide in the haunches, without projection of the hip bones, upon which the shorter ribs seemed to lap, high in the withers as she was, the line of her back and neck perfectly curved, while her deep oblique shoulders and long thick forearm, ridgey with swelling sinews, suggested the perfection of stride and power. Her knees across the pan were wide, the cannon-bone below them short and thin, the pasterns long and sloping, her hoofs round, dark, shiny, and well set in. Her mane was a shade darker than her coat, fine and thin, as a thoroughbreds always is whose blood is without taint or cross. Her ear was thin, sharply pointed, delicately curved, nearly black around the borders and as tremulous as the leaves of an aspen. Her neck rose from the withers to the head in perfect curvature, hard, devoid of fat, and well cut up under the chops. Her nostrils were full, very full, and thin almost as parchment. The eyes from which tears might fall or fire flash were well brought out, soft as a gazelle's, almost human in their intelligence, while over the small bony head, over neck and shoulders, yea, over the whole body and clean down to the hoofs, the veins stood out as if the skin were but tissue paper, against which the warm blood pressed, and which it might at any moment burst asunder. A perfect animal, I said to myself, as I lay looking her over, an animal which might have been born from the wind and the sunshine, so cheerful and so swift she seems, an animal which a man would present as his choicest gift to the woman he loved, and yet one which that woman, wife or lady love, would give him to ride when honor and life depended on bottom and speed. All that afternoon the beautiful mare stood over me, while away to the right of us the horse tide of battle flowed and ebbed. What charm, what delusion of memory held her there? Was my face to her as the face of her dead master, sleeping asleep from which not even the wildest roar of battle, no, nor her cheerful nay at morning, would ever wake him? Or is there in animal some instinct answering to our intuition, only more potent, which tells them whom to trust and whom to avoid? I know not, and yet some such sense they may have, they must have, or else why should this mare so fearlessly attach herself to me? By what process of reason or instinct I know not, but there she chose me for her mastery, for when some of my men at dusk came searching and found me, and laying me on a stretcher started toward our lines, the mare, uncompelled, of her own free will, followed at my side, and all through that stormy night of wind and rain, as my men struggled along through the mud and mire toward Harrison's landing, the mare followed, and ever after, until she died, was with me, and was mine, and I, so far as man might be, was hers, I named her Goulner. As quickly as my wound permitted, I was transported to Washington, wither I took the mare with me, her fondness for me grew daily, and soon became so marked as to cause universal comment. I had her boarded, while in Washington, at the corner of Blank Street and Blank Avenue, the groom had instructions to lead her round to the window against which was my bed, at the hospital twice every day, so that by opening this ash, I might reach out my hand and pet her. But the second day, no sooner had she reached the street, then she broke suddenly from the groom, and dashed away at full speed. I was lying, bolstered up in bed, reading, when I heard the rush of flying feet, and in an instant, with a loud, joyful neigh, she checked herself in front of my window. And when the nurse lifted the sash, the beautiful creature thrust her head through the aperture, and rubbed her nose against my shoulder like a dog. I am not ashamed to say that I put both my arms around her neck, and, burying my face in her silken mane, kissed her again and again. Wounded, weak, and away from home, with only strangers to wait upon me, and scant service at that, the affection of this lovely creature for me, so tender and touching, seemed almost human, and my heart went out to her beyond any power of expression, as to the only being of all the thousands around me who thought of me and loved me. Shortly after her appearance at my window, the groom, who had divined where he would find her, came into the yard, but she would not allow him to come near her, much less touch her. If he tried to approach, she would lash out at him with her heels most spitefully, and then, laying back her ears and opening her mouth savagely, would make a short dash at him, and, as the terrified African disappeared around the corner of the hospital, she would wheel, and with a face bright as a happy child, come trotting to the window for me to pet her. I shouted to the groom to go back to the stable, for I had no doubt but that she would return to her stall when I closed the window. Rejoiced at the permission, he departed. After some thirty minutes, the last ten of which she was standing, with her slim, delicate head in my lap, while I braided her foretop and combed out her silk and mane, I lifted her head, and patting her softly on either cheek, told her that she must go. I gently pushed her head out of the window and closed it, and then, holding up my hand with a palm, turned toward her, charged her, making the appropriate motion, to go away right straight back to her stable. For a moment she stood looking steadily at me with an indescribable expression of hesitation and surprise in her clear, liquid eyes, and then, turning lingeringly, walked slowly out of the yard. Twice a day, for nearly a month, while I lay in the hospital, did Gulner visit me. At the appointed hour the groom would slip her head stall, and without a word of command she would dart out of the stable, and with her long, leopard-like lobe, go sweeping down the street, and come dashing into the hospital yard, checking herself with the same glad-nay at my window. Nor did she ever once fail, at the closing of the sash, to return directly to her stall. The groom informed me that every morning and evening, when the hour of her visit drew near, she would begin to chafe and worry, and by pawing and pulling at the halter, advertise him that it was time for her to be released. But of all exhibitions of happiness, either by beast or man, hers was the most positive on that afternoon when, racing into the yard, she found me leaning on a crutch outside the hospital building. The whole corps of nurses came to the door, and all the poor fellows that could move themselves, for Gulner had become a universal favorite, and the boys looked for her daily visits, nearly, if not quite as ardently, as I did. Crawled to the windows to see her. What gladness was expressed in every movement. She would come prancing toward me, head and tail erect, and, pausing, rub her head against my shoulder, while I patted her glossy neck. Then suddenly, with a side-wise spring, she would break away, and, with her long tail elevated, until her magnificent brush, fine and silken, as the golden hair of a blonde, fell in a great spray on either flank, and her head, curved to its proudest arch, paced around me with that high action and springing step peculiar to the thoroughbred. Then, like a flash, dropping her brush and laying back her ears, and stretching her nose straight out, she would speed away with that quick, nervous, low-lying action which marks the rush of racers. When side by side and nose to nose, lapping each other, with the roar of cheers on either hand, and along the seats above them, they come straining up the home stretch. Returning from one of these arrow-y flights, she would come curvetting back, now pacing side-wise, as on parade, now dashing her hind feet high into the air, and anon vaulting up and springing through the air, with legs well under her, as if in the act of taking a five-barred gate, and, finally, would approach and stand happy of her reward, my caress. The war at last was over. Gulmer and I were in at the death with Charadan at the five forks. Together we had shared the pageant at Richmond and Washington, and never had I seen her in better spirits than on that day at the Capitol. It was a sight, indeed, to see her as she came down Pennsylvania Avenue. If the triumphant procession had been all in her honor and mine, she could not have moved with greater grace and pride. With dilating eye and tremulous ear, ceaselessly champing her bit, her heated blood bringing out the magnificent lacework of veins over her entire body, now and then pausing, and with a snort gathering herself back upon her anches as for a mighty leap, while she shook the froth from her bits, she moved with a high prancing step down the magnificent street they admired of all beholders. Cheer after cheer was given, who saw after who saw rang out over her head from roofs and balcony, bouquet after bouquet was launched by fair and enthusiastic admirers before her. And yet, amid the crash and swell of music, the cheering and tumult so gentle and manageable was she that though I could feel her frame creep and tremble under me as she moved through that whirlwind of excitement, no check or curb was needed and the bridal lines, the same she wore when she came to me at Malvern Hill, lay unlifted on the pommel of the saddle. Never before had I seen her so grandly herself. Never before had the fire and energy, the grace and gentleness of her blood so revealed themselves. This was the day and the event she needed and all the royalty of her ancestral breed, a race of equine kings, flowing as without taint or cross from him that was the pride and wealth of the whole tribe of desert rangers expressed itself in her. I need not say that I shared her mood. I sympathized in her every step. I entered into her royal humors. I patted her neck and spoke loving and cheerful words to her. I called her my beauty, my pride, my pet. And did she not understand me? Every word. Else why that listening ear turned back to catch my softest whisper? Why the responsive quiver through the frame and the low happy-nay? Well, I exclaimed as I leaped from her back at the close of the review. Alas, that word spoken in lightest mood should portend so much. Well, Gunnar, if you should die, your life has had its triumph. The nation itself, through its admiring capital, has paid tribute to your beauty and death can never rob you of your fame. And I patted her moist neck and phone-flexed shoulders while the grooms were busy with head and loins. That night our brigade made its bivouac just over Long Bridge, almost on the identical spot where four years before I had camped my company of three months volunteers. With what experiences of march and a battle were those four years filled? For three of these years Gunnar had been my constant companion. With me she had to share my tent and not rarely my rations, for in appetite she was truly human and my steward always counted her as one of our mess. Twice had she been wounded, once at Fredericksburg through the thigh, and once at Cold Harbor where a piece of shell tore away a part of her scalp. So completely did it stun her that for some months I thought her dead, but to my great joy she shortly recovered her senses. I had the wound carefully dressed by our brigade surgeon from whose care she came in a month with the edges of the wound so nicely united that the eye could, with difficulty, detect the scar. This night as usual she lay up my side, her head almost touching mine. Never before, unless when on a raid and in face of the enemy, had I seen her so uneasy. Her movements during the night compelled wakefulness on my part. The sky was cloudless and in the dim light I lay and watched her. Now she would stretch herself at full length and rub her head on the ground. Then she would start up, and sitting on her haunches, like a dog, lift one foreleg and paw her neck and ears. Anon she would rise to her feet and shake herself, walk off a few rods, return, and lie down again by my side. I did not know what to make of it, unless the excitement of the day had been too much for her sensitive nerves. I spoke to her kindly and petted her. In response she would rub her nose against me and lick my hand with her tongue, a peculiar habit of hers, like a dog. As I was passing my hand over her head, I discovered that it was hot, and the thought of the old wound flashed into my mind, with a momentary fear that something might be wrong about her brain. But after thinking it over I dismissed it as incredible. Still I was alarmed. I knew that something was amiss, and I rejoiced at the thought that I should soon be at home where she could have quiet, and if need be, the rest of nursing. At length the morning dawned, and the mayor and I took our last meal together on southern soil, the last we ever took together. The brigade was formed in line for the last time, and as I rode down the front to review the boys, she moved with all her old battle, grace, and power. Only now and then, by a shake of the head, was I reminded of her actions during the night. I said a few words of farewell to the men whom I had led so often to battle, with whom I had dared perils, not a few, and by whom, as I had reason to think, I was loved, and then gave, with a voice slightly unsteady, the last order they would ever receive from me, brigade, attention, ready to break ranks, break ranks. The order was obeyed, but ere they scattered, moved by a common impulse, they gave first three cheers for me, and then, with the same heartiness and even more power, three cheers for Gulnay. And she, standing there, looking with her bright, cheerful countenance, full at the men, pawing with her forefeet, alternately the ground, seemed to understand the compliment. For no sooner had the cheering died away than she arched her neck to its proudest curve, lifted her thin, delicate head into the air, and gave a short, joyful nae. My arrangements for transporting her had been made by a friend the day before. A large, roomy car had been secured, its floor strewn with bright, clean straw, a bucket and a bag of oats provided, and everything done for her comfort. The car was to be attached to the through express in consideration of fifty dollars extra, which I gladly paid, because of the greater rapidity with which it enabled me to make my journey. As the brigade broke up into groups, I glanced at my watch, and saw that I had barely time to reach the cars before they started. I shook the reins upon her neck, and with the plunge, startled at the energy of my signal, away she flew. What a stride she had! What an elastic spring! She touched and left the earth as if her limbs were of spiral wire. When I reached the car, my friend was standing in front of it, the gang plank was ready. I leaped from the saddle and, running up the plank into the car, whistled to her. And she, timid and hesitating, yet unwilling to be separated from me, crept slowly and cautiously up the steep incline and stood beside me. Inside I found a complete suit of flannel clothes with a blanket and, better than all, a lunch basket. My friend explained that he had bought the clothes as he came down to the depot, thinking, as he said, that they would be much better than your regimentals, and suggested that I doff the one and doff the other. To this I assented, the more readily as I reflected, that I would have to pass one night at least in the car, with no better bed than the straw under my feet. I had barely time to undress before the cars were coupled and started. I tossed the clothes to my friend with the injunction to pack them in my trunk and expressed them on to me and waved him my adieu. I arrayed myself in the nice, cool flannel and looked around. The thoughtfulness of my friend had anticipated every want. An old cane-seated chair stood in one corner. The lunch basket was large and well supplied. Amid the oats I found a dozen oranges, some bananas, and a package of real Havana cigars. How I called down blessings on his thoughtful head, as I took the chair and, lighting one of the fine-flavored figaroes, gazed out on the fields, past which we were gliding, yet wet with morning dew. As I sat dreamily admiring the beauty before me, Gulnar came and, resting her head upon my shoulder, seemed to share my mood. As I stroked her fine-haired, satin-like nose, recollection, quickened, and memories of our companionship in perils thronged into my mind. I rode again that midnight ride to Knoxville when Burnside lay entrenched, desperately holding his own, waiting for news from Chattanooga, of which I was the bearer, chosen by Grant himself, because of the reputation of my mare. What writing that was! We started, ten writers of us in all, each with the same message. I parted company the first hour out with all save one, an iron-grace stallion of messenger blood. Jack Murdock rode him, who learned his horsemanship from Buffalo and Indian hunting on the plains, not a bad school to graduate from. Ten miles out of Knoxville, the gray, his flanks dripping with blood, plunged up a breast of the mare's shoulders, and fell dead. And Gulnar and I passed through the lines alone. I had ridden the terrible race without whip or spur, with what scenes of blood and flight she would ever be associated. And then I thought of home, unvisited for four long years, that home I left as dripling, but to which I was returning a bronzed and brawny man. I thought of mother and Bob, how they would admire her, of old Ben, the family groom, and of that one who shall be nameless, whose picture I had so often shown to Gulnar as the lightness of her future mistress. Had they not all heard of her, my beautiful mare, she who came to me from the smoke and whirlwind, my battle-gift. How they would pat her soft, smooth sides, and tie her mane with ribbons, and feed her with all sweet things from open and caressing balm. And then I thought of one who might come after her to bear her name, and repeat at least some portion of her beauty, a horse honored and renowned the country through because of the transmission of the mother's fame. About three o'clock in the afternoon a change came over Gulnar. I had fallen asleep upon this draw, and she had come and wakened me with a touch of her nose. The moment I started up I saw that something was the matter. Her eyes were dull and heavy. Never before had I seen the light go out of them. The rocking of the car, as it went jumping and vibrating along, seemed to irritate her. She began to rub her head against the side of the car. Touching it I found that the skin over the brain was hot as fire. Her breathing grew rapidly louder and louder. Each breath was drawn with a kind of gasping effort. The lids, with their silken fringe, dropped virally over the lusterless eyes. The head sank lower and lower until the nose almost touched the floor. The ears, naturally so lively and erect, hung limp and widely apart. The body was cold and senseless. A pinch elicited no motion. Even my voice was at last unheeded. To word and touch there came for the first time in all our intercourse no response. I knew as the symptoms spread what was the matter. The signs bore all one way. She was in the first stages of frenitis or inflammation of the brain. In other words my beautiful mare was going mad. I was well versed in the anatomy of the horse, loving horses from my very childhood. There was little in veterinary practice with which I was not familiar. Instinctively, as soon as the symptoms had developed themselves, and I saw under what frightful disorder Gulner was laboring, I put my hand into my pocket for my knife in order to open a vein. There was no knife there. Friends, I have met with many surprises. More than once in battle and scout have I been nigh death, but never did my blood desert my veins and settle so around my heart. Never did such a sickening sensation possessed me, as when standing in that car with my beautiful mare before me, marked with those horrible symptoms, I made that discovery. My knife, my sword, my pistols even, were with my suit in the care of my friend, two hundred miles away. Hastily and with trembling fingers I searched my clothes, the lunch basket, my linen. Not even a pin could I find. I shoved open the sliding door and swung my hat and shouted, hoping to attract some breakman's attention. The train was thundering along at full speed, and none saw or heard me. I knew her stupor would not last long. A slight quivering of the lip, an occasional spasm running through the frame, told me too plainly that the stage of frenzy would soon begin. My God! I exclaimed in despair, as I shut the door and turned toward her. Must I see you die, Goner, when the opening of a vein would save you? Have you borne me, my pet, through all these years of peril, the icy chill of winter, the heat and torment of summer, and all the thronging dangers of a hundred bloody battles, only to die torn by fierce agonies when so near a peaceful home? But little time was given me to mourn. My life was soon to be in peril, and I must summon up the utmost power of I and Lim to escape the violence of my frenzied mare. Did you ever see a mad horse when his madness is on him? Take your stand with me in that car, and you shall see what suffering a dumb creature can endure before it dies. In nomality does a horse suffer more than in frenitis or inflammation of the brain. Possibly in severe cases of colic, probably in rabies in its fiercest form, the pain is equally intense. These three are the most agonizing of all the diseases to which the noblest of animals is exposed. Had my pistols been with me, I should then and there, with whatever strength heaven granted, have taken my companion's life that she might be spared the suffering which was so soon to rack and ring her sensitive frame. A horse laboring under an attack of frenitis is as violent as a horse can be. He is not ferocious as is one in a fit of rabies. He may kill his master, but he does it without design. There is in him no desire of mischief for its own sake, no cruel cunning, no stratagem and malice. A rabid horse is conscious in every act in motion. He recognizes the man he destroys. There is in him an insane desire to kill. Not so with the frenetic horse. He is unconscious of his violence. He sees and recognizes no one. There is no method or purpose in his madness. He kills without knowing it. I knew what was coming. I could not jump out. That would be certain death. I must abide in the car and take my chance of life. The car was fortunately high, long and roomy. I took my position in front of my horse, watchful and ready to spring. Suddenly her lips, which had been closed, came open with a snap as if an electric shock had passed through her, and the eyes, wild in their brightness, stared directly at me. And what eyes they were. The membrane grew red and redder until it was of the color of blood, standing out in frightful contrast with the transparency of the cornea. The pupil gradually dilated, until it seemed about to burst out of the socket. The nostrils, which had been sunken and motionless, quivered, swelled and glowed. The respiration became short, quick and gasping. The limp and dripping ears stiffened and stood erect, pricked sharply forward as if to catch the slightest sound. Spasms, as the car swerved and vibrated, ran along her frame. More horrid than all, the lips slowly contracted and the white, sharp-edged teeth stood uncovered, giving an indescribable look of ferocity to the partially opened mouth. The car suddenly reeled as it dashed around a curve, swaying her almost off her feet. And as a contortion shook her, she recovered herself and, rearing upward as high as the car permitted, plunged directly at me. I was expecting the movement and dodged. Then followed exhibition of pain, which I pray God, I may never see again. Time and again did she dash herself upon the floor and roll over and over, ladling out her feet in all directions. Pausing a moment, she would stretch her body to its extreme length, and lying upon her side, pound the floor with her head as if it were a mall. Then, like a flash, she would leap to her feet and whirl around and around until, from very giddiness, she would stagger and fall. She would lay hold of the straw with her teeth and shake it as a dog shakes a struggling woodchuck. Then, dashing it from her mouth, she would seize hold of her own sides and send herself. Springing up, she would rush against the end of the car, falling all in a heap from the violence of the concussion. For some fifteen minutes, without intermission, the frenzy lasted. I was nearly exhausted. My efforts to avoid her mad rushes, the terrible tension of my nervous system, produced by the spectacle of such exquisite and prolonged suffering, were weakening me beyond what I should have thought it possible an hour before for anything to weaken me. In fact, I felt my strength leaving me. A terror such as I had never yet felt was taking possession of my mind. I sickened at the sight before me and at the thought of agonies yet to come. My God, I exclaimed, must I be killed by my own horse in this miserable car? Even as I spoke, the end came. The mare raised herself until her shoulders touched the roof, then dashed her body upon the floor with a violence which threatened the stout frame beneath her. I leaned, panting and exhausted, against the side of the car. Gulner did not stir. She lay motionless, her breath coming and going in, lessening respirations. I tottered toward her, and as I stood above her, my ear detected a low, gurgling sound. I cannot describe the feeling that followed. Joy and grief contended within me. I knew the meaning of that sound. Gulner, in her frenzied violence, had broken a blood vessel and was bleeding internally. Pain and life were passing away together. I knelt down by her side. I laid my head upon her shoulders and sobbed aloud. Her body moved a little beneath me. I crawled forward and lifted her beautiful head into my lap. Oh, for one more sign of recognition before she died. I smoothed the tangled masses of her mane. I wiped with a fragment of my coat, torn in the struggle, the blood which oozed from her nostril. I called her by name. My desire was granted. In a moment Gulner opened her eyes. The redness of frenzy had passed out of them. She saw and recognized me. I spoke again. Her eye lighted a moment with the old and intelligent look of love. Her ear moved, her nostril quivered gently as she strove to neigh. The effort was in vain. Her love was greater than her strength. She moved her head a little as if she would be nearer me. Looked once more with her clear eyes into my face. Breathed a long breath, straightened her shapely limbs, and died. And there, holding the head of my dead mare in my lap, while the great warm tears fell one after another down my cheeks, I sat until the sun went down. The shadows darkened in the car, and night drew her mantle, colored like my grief over the world.