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Za darmoA Wizard from Gettysburg
Kate Chopin
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It was one afternoon in April, not long ago — only the other day, in fact — and the shadows were already beginning to lengthen.
Bertrand Delmandé, a fine, bright-looking boy of fourteen or perhaps fifteen, was riding along a pleasant country road on a little Creole pony, the kind that boys in Louisiana usually ride when they have nothing better at hand. He had been hunting and carried his gun before him.
It is unpleasant to state that Bertrand was not as depressed as he should have been, given the recent turn of events. Within the past week he had been called home from the college of Grand Coteau to the Bon-Accueil plantation. He had found his father and grandmother worried about money, waiting for certain legal developments that might force him to leave school for good. That very day, right after the early dinner, the two had driven to town on that business and would not be back until late afternoon. So Bertrand had saddled Picayune and gone for a long ride, just the kind his heart delighted in.
He was returning now and had come to the beginning of the great tangled Cherokee hedge that bordered Bon-Accueil and sparkled with countless white roses.
The pony started suddenly and violently at something there in the turn of the road, just under the hedge. At first it looked like a bundle of rags. But it was a tramp, seated on a broad, flat stone.
Bertrand had no soft spot for tramps as a rule; that very morning he had driven one off the place who was making a nuisance of himself at the kitchen window.
But this tramp was old and feeble. His beard was long and as white as freshly ginned cotton, and when Bertrand saw him, he was trying to stanch a wound on his bare heel with a handful of matted grass.
"What's wrong, old man?" asked the boy kindly.
The tramp looked up at him with a bewildered glance but did not answer.
"Well," thought Bertrand, "since it's settled that I'm to be a physician someday, I can't start practicing too early."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 1 / 7
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
It was one afternoon in April, not long ago — only the other day, in fact — and the shadows were already beginning to lengthen.
Bertrand Delmandé, a fine, bright-looking boy of fourteen or perhaps fifteen, was riding along a pleasant country road on a little Creole pony, the kind that boys in Louisiana usually ride when they have nothing better at hand. He had been hunting and carried his gun before him.
It is unpleasant to state that Bertrand was not as depressed as he should have been, given the recent turn of events. Within the past week he had been called home from the college of Grand Coteau to the Bon-Accueil plantation. He had found his father and grandmother worried about money, waiting for certain legal developments that might force him to leave school for good. That very day, right after the early dinner, the two had driven to town on that business and would not be back until late afternoon. So Bertrand had saddled Picayune and gone for a long ride, just the kind his heart delighted in.
He was returning now and had come to the beginning of the great tangled Cherokee hedge that bordered Bon-Accueil and sparkled with countless white roses.
The pony started suddenly and violently at something there in the turn of the road, just under the hedge. At first it looked like a bundle of rags. But it was a tramp, seated on a broad, flat stone.
Bertrand had no soft spot for tramps as a rule; that very morning he had driven one off the place who was making a nuisance of himself at the kitchen window.
But this tramp was old and feeble. His beard was long and as white as freshly ginned cotton, and when Bertrand saw him, he was trying to stanch a wound on his bare heel with a handful of matted grass.
"What's wrong, old man?" asked the boy kindly.
The tramp looked up at him with a bewildered glance but did not answer.
"Well," thought Bertrand, "since it's settled that I'm to be a physician someday, I can't start practicing too early."He dismounted and examined the injured foot. It had an ugly gash. Bertrand acted mostly on impulse; fortunately, his impulses were not bad ones. So, nimbly and as quickly as he could manage, he got the old man onto Picayune's back, while he himself led the pony down the narrow lane.
The dark green hedge rose like a high, solid wall on one side. On the other was a broad, open field where here and there the flash and gleam of polished hoes appeared as black men worked between the even rows of cotton and young corn.
"This is the State of Louisiana," the tramp said, his voice quavering.
"Yes, this is Louisiana," returned Bertrand cheerfully.
"Yes, I know it is. I've been in all of them since Gettysburg. Sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes too cold; and with that bullet in my head—you don't remember? No, you don't remember Gettysburg."
"Well, no, not vividly," laughed Bertrand.
"Is it a hospital? It isn't a factory, is it?" the man asked.
"Where we're going? Why, no, it's the Delmandé plantation—Bon-Accueil. Here we are. Wait, I'll open the gate."
This strange pair entered the yard from the rear, not far from the house. A big black woman sitting outside a cabin door, picking over a pile of rusty-looking moss, called out at the sight of them:
"What you bringin' in dis yard, boy? Top dat hoss?"
She received no reply. Bertrand took no notice of her question.
"Fu' a boy what goes to school like you does—where's your sense?" she went on, with a fine show of indignation; then she muttered to herself, "Ma'ame Bertrand an' Marse St. Ange ain't goin' to stand dat, I knows dey ain't. Dah! Ef he ain't done set 'im on de gallery, plumb down in his pa's rockin' chair!"
Which the boy had done — seated the tramp in a pleasant corner of the veranda while he went in search of bandages for his wound.
The servants showed their disapproval loudly, the housemaid following Bertrand into his grandmother's room, where he had gone to look for bandages.
"What you tearin' your grandma's closet to pieces dat way, boy?" she complained in her high soprano.
"I'm looking for bandages."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 2 / 7
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He dismounted and examined the injured foot. It had an ugly gash. Bertrand acted mostly on impulse; fortunately, his impulses were not bad ones. So, nimbly and as quickly as he could manage, he got the old man onto Picayune's back, while he himself led the pony down the narrow lane.
The dark green hedge rose like a high, solid wall on one side. On the other was a broad, open field where here and there the flash and gleam of polished hoes appeared as black men worked between the even rows of cotton and young corn.
"This is the State of Louisiana," the tramp said, his voice quavering.
"Yes, this is Louisiana," returned Bertrand cheerfully.
"Yes, I know it is. I've been in all of them since Gettysburg. Sometimes it was too hot, and sometimes too cold; and with that bullet in my head—you don't remember? No, you don't remember Gettysburg."
"Well, no, not vividly," laughed Bertrand.
"Is it a hospital? It isn't a factory, is it?" the man asked.
"Where we're going? Why, no, it's the Delmandé plantation—Bon-Accueil. Here we are. Wait, I'll open the gate."
This strange pair entered the yard from the rear, not far from the house. A big black woman sitting outside a cabin door, picking over a pile of rusty-looking moss, called out at the sight of them:
"What you bringin' in dis yard, boy? Top dat hoss?"
She received no reply. Bertrand took no notice of her question.
"Fu' a boy what goes to school like you does—where's your sense?" she went on, with a fine show of indignation; then she muttered to herself, "Ma'ame Bertrand an' Marse St. Ange ain't goin' to stand dat, I knows dey ain't. Dah! Ef he ain't done set 'im on de gallery, plumb down in his pa's rockin' chair!"
Which the boy had done — seated the tramp in a pleasant corner of the veranda while he went in search of bandages for his wound.
The servants showed their disapproval loudly, the housemaid following Bertrand into his grandmother's room, where he had gone to look for bandages.
"What you tearin' your grandma's closet to pieces dat way, boy?" she complained in her high soprano.
"I'm looking for bandages.""Den why you don't ask for bandages, an' leave your grandma's closet alone? You want to listen to me; you goin' get shed of dat tramp settin' dere next to de dining room! When de silver be missin', 'tain't you what's goin' get blame, it's me."
"The silver? Nonsense, 'Cindy; the man's wounded, and can't you see he's out of his head?"
"No more out of his head than I is. 'Tain't me what wants to trust 'im wid de storeroom key, ef he is out of his head," she concluded with a disdainful shrug.
But Bertrand's protégé proved so unapproachable in his long-worn rags that the boy decided to leave him alone until his father returned, and then ask permission to put the poor creature in the bathhouse and dress him in clean clothes.
So the old tramp sat in the veranda corner, stolidly content, when St. Ange Delmandé and his mother returned from town.
St. Ange was a dark, slender man of middle age, with a sensitive face and a good deal of gray in his thick black hair. His mother was a portly woman, still active for her sixty-five years.
They were clearly in a gloomy mood. Perhaps to cheer them, they had brought from town a little girl, the child of Madame Delmandé's only daughter, who was married and lived there.
Madame Delmandé and her son were astonished to find such an uninviting intruder in possession. But a few earnest words from Bertrand reassured them and partly reconciled them to the man's presence, and they passed him with indifferent, though not unkind, glances as they entered. On any large plantation there are always nooks and crannies where, for a night or more, even such a man as this tramp might be tolerated and given shelter.
When Bertrand went to bed that night, he lay awake a long time thinking about the man and what he had heard from his lips in the hushed starlight. The boy had heard so much about the horrors of Gettysburg that it felt like something he could almost touch and shudder at.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 3 / 7
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Den why you don't ask for bandages, an' leave your grandma's closet alone? You want to listen to me; you goin' get shed of dat tramp settin' dere next to de dining room! When de silver be missin', 'tain't you what's goin' get blame, it's me."
"The silver? Nonsense, 'Cindy; the man's wounded, and can't you see he's out of his head?"
"No more out of his head than I is. 'Tain't me what wants to trust 'im wid de storeroom key, ef he is out of his head," she concluded with a disdainful shrug.
But Bertrand's protégé proved so unapproachable in his long-worn rags that the boy decided to leave him alone until his father returned, and then ask permission to put the poor creature in the bathhouse and dress him in clean clothes.
So the old tramp sat in the veranda corner, stolidly content, when St. Ange Delmandé and his mother returned from town.
St. Ange was a dark, slender man of middle age, with a sensitive face and a good deal of gray in his thick black hair. His mother was a portly woman, still active for her sixty-five years.
They were clearly in a gloomy mood. Perhaps to cheer them, they had brought from town a little girl, the child of Madame Delmandé's only daughter, who was married and lived there.
Madame Delmandé and her son were astonished to find such an uninviting intruder in possession. But a few earnest words from Bertrand reassured them and partly reconciled them to the man's presence, and they passed him with indifferent, though not unkind, glances as they entered. On any large plantation there are always nooks and crannies where, for a night or more, even such a man as this tramp might be tolerated and given shelter.
When Bertrand went to bed that night, he lay awake a long time thinking about the man and what he had heard from his lips in the hushed starlight. The boy had heard so much about the horrors of Gettysburg that it felt like something he could almost touch and shudder at.On that battlefield this man had been given a new and tragic birth. Everything from before was blank to him. There, in the dark desolation of war, he was born again, without friends or family, without even a name he could claim as his own. And then he had gone forth as a wanderer, spending more than half his time in hospitals, working when he could, starving when he had to.
Strangely, he had called Bertrand "St. Ange" — not once, but every time he spoke to him. The boy wondered why. Perhaps it was because he had heard Madame Delmandé call her son by that name and had imagined it?
This nameless wanderer had drifted all the way down to the Bon-Accueil plantation and at last found a human hand extended to him in kindness.
When the family gathered for breakfast the next morning, the tramp was already settled in the chair and in the corner that Bertrand's indulgence had made familiar to him.
If he had turned his head, he would have faced the flower garden with its graveled walks and neat flower beds, where a riot of color and perfume was holding high festival that April morning. But he preferred to gaze into the backyard, where there was always movement: men and women coming and going with tools, little black children in scanty clothes darting about and kicking up dust in their high spirits.
Madame Delmandé could just catch a glimpse of him through the long window that opened to the floor, near which he sat.
Mr. Delmandé had spoken to the man pleasantly, but he and his mother were completely absorbed by their troubles and talked about them constantly, while Bertrand went back and forth ministering to the old man's needs. The boy knew the servants would have done it with bad grace, so he chose to be cupbearer himself to this unfortunate creature for whose presence he alone was responsible.
Once, when Bertrand brought him a second cup of steaming, fragrant coffee, the old man whispered, pointing over his shoulder toward the dining room: "What are they saying in there?"
"Oh, money troubles that will force us to economize for a while," answered the boy. "What father and mé-mère feel worst about is that I'll have to leave college now."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 4 / 7
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
On that battlefield this man had been given a new and tragic birth. Everything from before was blank to him. There, in the dark desolation of war, he was born again, without friends or family, without even a name he could claim as his own. And then he had gone forth as a wanderer, spending more than half his time in hospitals, working when he could, starving when he had to.
Strangely, he had called Bertrand "St. Ange" — not once, but every time he spoke to him. The boy wondered why. Perhaps it was because he had heard Madame Delmandé call her son by that name and had imagined it?
This nameless wanderer had drifted all the way down to the Bon-Accueil plantation and at last found a human hand extended to him in kindness.
When the family gathered for breakfast the next morning, the tramp was already settled in the chair and in the corner that Bertrand's indulgence had made familiar to him.
If he had turned his head, he would have faced the flower garden with its graveled walks and neat flower beds, where a riot of color and perfume was holding high festival that April morning. But he preferred to gaze into the backyard, where there was always movement: men and women coming and going with tools, little black children in scanty clothes darting about and kicking up dust in their high spirits.
Madame Delmandé could just catch a glimpse of him through the long window that opened to the floor, near which he sat.
Mr. Delmandé had spoken to the man pleasantly, but he and his mother were completely absorbed by their troubles and talked about them constantly, while Bertrand went back and forth ministering to the old man's needs. The boy knew the servants would have done it with bad grace, so he chose to be cupbearer himself to this unfortunate creature for whose presence he alone was responsible.
Once, when Bertrand brought him a second cup of steaming, fragrant coffee, the old man whispered, pointing over his shoulder toward the dining room: "What are they saying in there?"
"Oh, money troubles that will force us to economize for a while," answered the boy. "What father and _mé-mère_ feel worst about is that I'll have to leave college now.""No, no! St. Ange must go to school. The war's over, the war's over! St. Ange and Florentine must go to school."
"But if there's no money," the boy insisted, smiling as one humors a child's fancies.
"Money! Money!" murmured the tramp. "The war's over—money! Money!"
His sleepy gaze swept across the yard into the orchard beyond and rested there. Suddenly he pushed aside the light table that had been set before him and rose, clutching Bertrand's arm.
"St. Ange, you must go to school!" he whispered. "The war's over," he said, looking around furtively. "Come. Don't let them hear you. Don't let the negroes see us. Get a spade—the little spade that Buck Williams was digging his cistern with."
Still holding the boy's arm, he pulled him down the steps and across the yard with long, limping strides, leading the way.
From under a shed where such tools were kept, Bertrand picked out a spade, since the tramp insisted, and together they entered the orchard.
The grass there was thick and tufted, wet with morning dew. Peach trees, pear, apple, and plum grew in long lines, forming pleasant avenues between. Close against the fence was the pomegranate hedge with its waxy, brick-red blossoms. Far in the middle of the orchard stood a huge pecan tree, twice the size of any other, seeming to rule like a king of old.
There Bertrand and his guide stopped. The tramp had not hesitated once since he had grabbed the boy's arm on the veranda. Now he went to the pecan tree and leaned his back against it, where there was a deep knot, and looking straight ahead he took ten paces forward. Then he turned sharply to the right and took five more. Then, pointing his finger downward and looking at Bertrand, he commanded: "Dig here. I would do it myself, but for my wounded foot. For I've turned many a spade of earth since Gettysburg. Dig, St. Ange, dig! The war's over; you must go to school."
Is there a boy of fifteen under the sun who would not have dug, even knowing he was following the insane orders of a madman? Bertrand threw himself into the strange adventure with all the zest of his years, digging and digging, flinging great spadefuls of rich, fragrant earth to either side.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 5 / 7
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"No, no! St. Ange must go to school. The war's over, the war's over! St. Ange and Florentine must go to school."
"But if there's no money," the boy insisted, smiling as one humors a child's fancies.
"Money! Money!" murmured the tramp. "The war's over—money! Money!"
His sleepy gaze swept across the yard into the orchard beyond and rested there. Suddenly he pushed aside the light table that had been set before him and rose, clutching Bertrand's arm.
"St. Ange, you must go to school!" he whispered. "The war's over," he said, looking around furtively. "Come. Don't let them hear you. Don't let the negroes see us. Get a spade—the little spade that Buck Williams was digging his cistern with."
Still holding the boy's arm, he pulled him down the steps and across the yard with long, limping strides, leading the way.
From under a shed where such tools were kept, Bertrand picked out a spade, since the tramp insisted, and together they entered the orchard.
The grass there was thick and tufted, wet with morning dew. Peach trees, pear, apple, and plum grew in long lines, forming pleasant avenues between. Close against the fence was the pomegranate hedge with its waxy, brick-red blossoms. Far in the middle of the orchard stood a huge pecan tree, twice the size of any other, seeming to rule like a king of old.
There Bertrand and his guide stopped. The tramp had not hesitated once since he had grabbed the boy's arm on the veranda. Now he went to the pecan tree and leaned his back against it, where there was a deep knot, and looking straight ahead he took ten paces forward. Then he turned sharply to the right and took five more. Then, pointing his finger downward and looking at Bertrand, he commanded: "Dig here. I would do it myself, but for my wounded foot. For I've turned many a spade of earth since Gettysburg. Dig, St. Ange, dig! The war's over; you must go to school."
Is there a boy of fifteen under the sun who would not have dug, even knowing he was following the insane orders of a madman? Bertrand threw himself into the strange adventure with all the zest of his years, digging and digging, flinging great spadefuls of rich, fragrant earth to either side.The tramp, bent over, with fingers like claws clasping his bony knees, watched with eager eyes that never left the boy's rhythmic movements.
"That's it!" he muttered from time to time. "Dig, dig! The war's over. You must go to school, St. Ange."
Deep in the earth, too deep for any ordinary plowing or digging to have reached, was a box. It appeared to be made of tin, somewhat larger than a cigar box, and bound round and round with twine that was now rotted and eaten through in places.
The tramp showed no surprise at seeing it there. He simply knelt, lifted it from its long resting place, and held it up.
Bertrand had let his spade fall, and he stood trembling with awe at what he saw. Who was this wizard who had come to him in the guise of a tramp, who walked in strange, measured steps across his own father's land, and pointed a finger like a divining rod to the spot where boxes—perhaps treasures—lay buried? It seemed like a page from a book of wonders.
And as he walked behind this white-haired old man, who was again leading the way, something of childhood superstition crept back into Bertrand's heart. It was the same feeling he had often had long ago, sitting in the eerie firelight of a negro cabin, listening to tales of witches who came in the night to work their spells.
When the breakfast was over, Madame Delmandé had not given up her custom of washing her own silver and delicate china. She sat with a pail of warm suds before her that 'Cindy had brought, and a pile of soft linen cloths. Her little granddaughter stood beside her, playing as babies will with the bright spoons and forks, lining them up in rows on the polished mahogany table. St. Ange was at the window, making notes in a book, frowning as he worked.
They were thus occupied when the old tramp staggered into the dining room, with Bertrand right behind him.
He went to the foot of the table, opposite Madame Delmandé, and dropped the box upon it.
The box shattered as it fell, and from its broken sides gold came pouring out — clicking, spinning, gliding, some of it rolling like liquid, some of it tumbling along the table and onto the floor, but most of it heaping up in a pile before the tramp.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 6 / 7
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The tramp, bent over, with fingers like claws clasping his bony knees, watched with eager eyes that never left the boy's rhythmic movements.
"That's it!" he muttered from time to time. "Dig, dig! The war's over. You must go to school, St. Ange."
Deep in the earth, too deep for any ordinary plowing or digging to have reached, was a box. It appeared to be made of tin, somewhat larger than a cigar box, and bound round and round with twine that was now rotted and eaten through in places.
The tramp showed no surprise at seeing it there. He simply knelt, lifted it from its long resting place, and held it up.
Bertrand had let his spade fall, and he stood trembling with awe at what he saw. Who was this wizard who had come to him in the guise of a tramp, who walked in strange, measured steps across his own father's land, and pointed a finger like a divining rod to the spot where boxes—perhaps treasures—lay buried? It seemed like a page from a book of wonders.
And as he walked behind this white-haired old man, who was again leading the way, something of childhood superstition crept back into Bertrand's heart. It was the same feeling he had often had long ago, sitting in the eerie firelight of a negro cabin, listening to tales of witches who came in the night to work their spells.
When the breakfast was over, Madame Delmandé had not given up her custom of washing her own silver and delicate china. She sat with a pail of warm suds before her that 'Cindy had brought, and a pile of soft linen cloths. Her little granddaughter stood beside her, playing as babies will with the bright spoons and forks, lining them up in rows on the polished mahogany table. St. Ange was at the window, making notes in a book, frowning as he worked.
They were thus occupied when the old tramp staggered into the dining room, with Bertrand right behind him.
He went to the foot of the table, opposite Madame Delmandé, and dropped the box upon it.
The box shattered as it fell, and from its broken sides gold came pouring out — clicking, spinning, gliding, some of it rolling like liquid, some of it tumbling along the table and onto the floor, but most of it heaping up in a pile before the tramp."Here's money!" he shouted, plunging his old hand into the thick of it. "Who says St. Ange shall not go to school? The war's over — here's money! St. Ange, my boy," he said, turning to Bertrand with sudden authority, "tell Buck Williams to hitch Black Bess to the buggy and go bring Judge Parkerson here."
Judge Parkerson, indeed! He had been dead for twenty years and more!
"Tell him that — that —" and the hand that was not in the gold went up to his wrinkled forehead, "that — Bertrand Delmandé needs him!"
At the sight of the man with his box and his gold, Madame Delmandé gave a sharp cry, as if a knife had pierced her. She now lay in her son's arms, panting hoarsely.
"Your father, St. Ange — come back from the dead — your father!"
"Be calm, mother!" the man implored. "You had such certain proof of his death in that terrible battle; this may not be he."
"I know him! I know your father, my son!" and pulling herself free from her son's arms, she dragged herself like a wounded serpent to where the old man stood.
His hand was still in the gold, and his face still flushed from shouting the name Bertrand Delmandé.
"Husband," she gasped, "do you know me — your wife?"
The little girl played gleefully with the yellow coins.
Bertrand stood, almost without pulse, like a young Actaeon carved in marble.
The old man looked long into the woman's pleading face. Then he made a courtly bow.
"Madame," he said, "an old soldier, wounded on the field of Gettysburg, craves for himself and his two little children your kind hospitality."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e9d1aa6af23f4b99bb03d753052baa66
# book_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# chapter_id: 1-a-wizard-from-gettysburg
# chapter_title: A Wizard from Gettysburg
# book_page: 7 / 7
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Here's money!" he shouted, plunging his old hand into the thick of it. "Who says St. Ange shall not go to school? The war's over — here's money! St. Ange, my boy," he said, turning to Bertrand with sudden authority, "tell Buck Williams to hitch Black Bess to the buggy and go bring Judge Parkerson here."
Judge Parkerson, indeed! He had been dead for twenty years and more!
"Tell him that — that —" and the hand that was not in the gold went up to his wrinkled forehead, "that — Bertrand Delmandé needs him!"
At the sight of the man with his box and his gold, Madame Delmandé gave a sharp cry, as if a knife had pierced her. She now lay in her son's arms, panting hoarsely.
"Your father, St. Ange — come back from the dead — your father!"
"Be calm, mother!" the man implored. "You had such certain proof of his death in that terrible battle; this may not be he."
"I know him! I know your father, my son!" and pulling herself free from her son's arms, she dragged herself like a wounded serpent to where the old man stood.
His hand was still in the gold, and his face still flushed from shouting the name Bertrand Delmandé.
"Husband," she gasped, "do you know me — your wife?"
The little girl played gleefully with the yellow coins.
Bertrand stood, almost without pulse, like a young Actaeon carved in marble.
The old man looked long into the woman's pleading face. Then he made a courtly bow.
"Madame," he said, "an old soldier, wounded on the field of Gettysburg, craves for himself and his two little children your kind hospitality."
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