But he what look of mastery was this Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, These doubts that grow each minute more and more? But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out And forth they sprang; and she must play her part. Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though slackening once, she turned her head about, But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand; Then trembling she her feet together drew And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Then from the course with eager steps she ran, But when she turned again, the great-limbed man And mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Note too, the bow that she was wont to bear But as he set his mighty hand on it Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Short was the way unto such winged feet, Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest woful victoryAnd yet and yet--why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? Why do these tremors run through every limb? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined, Nor inay she shudder now to fell his kiss, So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, born in Dorchester, Mass., in 1814; died in 1877. He was graduated from Harvard, and then spent some time at German universities. He studied law, but soon forsook the practice of his profession for literature. He attempted fiction, and published "Morton's Hope and "Merry Mount," which are virtually unread now. His pen turned to history, and Motley's name has an enviable place among historians. His three great works, "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," "The History of the United Netherlands and "The Life of John of Barneveld" stand as monuments of painstaking investigation and distinguished style. ASSASSINATION ΟΝ OF (From "Rise of the Dutch Republic ") N Tuesday, the 10th of July, 1584, at about halpast twelve, the Prince, with his wife on his arm, and followed by the ladies and gentlemen of his family, was going to the dining-room. William the Silent was dressed upon that day, according to his usual custom, in a very plain fashion. He wore a wide-leaved hat of dark felt, with a silken cord around the crown, such as had been worn by the 66 Beggars" in the early days of the revolt. A high ruff encircled his neck, from which also depended one of the Beggars' medals with the motto, "Fidèle jusqu'à la besace ;" while a loose surcoat of gray frieze cloth, over a tawny leather doublet, with wideslashed underclothes, completed his costume. Gérard presented himself at the doorway, and demanded a passport, which the Prince directed his secretary to make out for him. . . At two o'clock the company rose from the table. The Prince led the way, intending to pass to his private apartments above. The dining-room, which was on the ground floor, opened into a little square vestibule which communicated through an arched passage-way with the main entrance into the courtyard. The vestibule was also directly at the foot of the wooden staircase leading to the next floor, and was scarcely six feet in width. Upon its left side, as one approached the stairway, was an obscure arch sunk deep in the wall, and completely in shadow of the door. Behind this arch a portal opened to the narrow lane at the side of the house. The stairs themselves were completely lighted by a large window half way up the flight. The Prince came from the dining-room and began leisurely to ascend. He had only reached the second stair when a man emerged from the sunken arch, and, standing within a foot or two of him, discharged a pistol full at his heart. Three balls entered his body, one of which, passing quite through him, struck with violence upon the wall beyond. The Prince exclaimed in French, as he felt the wound: "O my God, have mercy upon my soul! O my God, have mercy upon this poor people!" These were the last words he ever spake, save that when his sister immediately afterward asked him if he commended his soul to Jesus Christ, he faintly answered, "Yes." His master-of-horse had caught him in his arms as the fatal shot was fired. The Prince was then placed on the stairs for an instant, when he immediately began to swoon. He was afterward laid upon a couch in the dining-room, where in a few minutes he breathed his last in the arms of his wife and sister. |