But Mae was not in that mood to-night. She leaned out of the window all untroubled. If the sun could stand still off behind the world--as he is now--and the moon could stand still right before us--as she is now--and we could stay right here, we three. Why, no, Eric has gone in and is walking up and down nervously. Thus Mae thought, and was quiet. "What are you thinking about?" asked Norman. She told him naturally, with her eyes on his until she reached the words "and we." Then her eyes fell, and she paused.

"Yes," replied Norman, "I have the same feeling," and there was a great deal more on the very tippest tip of his tongue. But Mae turned her face from him slightly; the moon stole softly behind the flimsiest little cloud that any one could have seen through, and he paused, silly fellow.

These slight withdrawals, that should have urged him on, deceived him.

He stopped, and then he remembered Mae's past doings, her recklessness, her waywardness. It was not time yet to speak what he had in his heart to say, and what quivered on his tongue. So he only asked abruptly: "You will go with me to-morrow night for one of your gayest frolics, will you not? We will go down on the Corso for all the Mocoletti fun. I am very anxious to be in another of your good times."

"O, would you like it?" said Mae; "I am so glad. I should delight in it.

It will be almost too good." She stopped abruptly again, and gave him a quick, soft glance, just as the moon rode triumphantly out from behind the filmy, flimsy veil, and shone full down on her eyes and hair. It fell on a bright, round, glistening ball, tucked in among some half curls behind her ear. "What is that?" asked Norman.

"That"--Mae put up her hand and drew it out--"that is my stiletto. I forgot to give it back to Lisetta. It is pretty, isn't it?"

Norman took the long needle from her hand and looked at it. "It is not as pretty as the flowered stiletto. Why didn't you get one of those?"

"Why, do you not know that those are not worn by free maidens? They are one of the added glories of a matron. I like my round, smooth ball a great deal better. It means liberty." And she plunged the steel tremulously back into her hair.

"We had better go in now; this night air is bad for you." The moon blazed scornfully down on Norman Mann as he said this. She had had a wide experience, and had rarely seen such a stupid, cowardly fellow, so she thought. Yet, after all, Norman only acted in self-defense. Here was a girl by his side who gloried, as it seemed to him, in her freedom, and that being so, he must get away as soon as possible from that window, that moon, and that little girl.

"Well, Norman," cried Eric, advancing eagerly as they turned from the window, "when do you really suppose it will come off?"

"Suppose what will come off?" inquired Mae.

"O, I forgot you were here. Well, don't tell any one else. Norman is to fight a duel."

"To fight a duel--and be killed?" gasped Mae.

"You have but a poor opinion of my powers," laughed Norman, "although the German looked a veteran duellist from his scars. His face was fairly embroidered or fancy-worked with red lines. A sort of hem in his nose, and tucks and seams all over his cheeks. Notice my knowledge in this line, Miss Mae. You ought to be ashamed, Eric, to have spoken of it."

"Isn't it all a joke?" asked Mae, pushing her head out of the window again, to hide the sudden white terror in her face. "I didn't suppose Americans fought duels when they were off pleasuring." This sentence Mae meant to pa.s.s as a gay, light, easy speech, to prove that Norman Mann and a duel were not such a very dreadful combination to her feminine mind.

"NO, it is no joke, but dead earnest," replied Eric. "I am to be his second, and you must keep it a great secret, Mae, till it is all over."

"All over!"--a sudden vision of Norman lying white and motionless with a deep wound across his soft, brown temple. Mae closed her eyes. "I suppose I might as well tell you about it," said Norman, "now that this stupid Eric has let out about the affair, although it may never come to anything. I was dining to-night at a little restaurant on the Felice, a quiet, homelike place, which a good many artists, and especially women, frequent. There is a queer, crazy little American, who thinks herself a painter, and is a harmless lunatic, who is a regular guest at this restaurant. Everybody smiles at her absurdities, but is ready enough to be kind to the poor old creature. To-night, however, I was hardly seated when in came a party of Germans, all in mask and Carnival costume. One of them was arrayed in exact imitation of this old lady. He had on a peaked bonnet and long, black gloves, with dangling fingers, such as she invariably wears. These he waved around mockingly and seating himself opposite her, he followed her every motion. The ladies at the same table rose and went away. Then up gets this big ruffian and sits down on the edge of the old lady's chair. I could stand it no longer, but jumping in front of him, showered down all the heavy talk I knew in German, Italian and French, subsiding at last into my mother tongue, with her appropriate epithets. Having sense enough left to know that he could not reap the full benefit of English, I pulled out my card, wrote my address on it, and threw it on the table, and I rather think that was understood. There's no country that I have heard of where men don't know what 'we'll fight this out, means.'" Norman was striding up and down the room now almost as restlessly as Eric had done, but he seated himself again as Mae asked for the rest.

"The rest is very simple, Miss Mae--mere business. I turned to go away, and one of his friends approached me to ask for the name of my second.

I gave Eric's here. He bowed and said: 'He shall hear from me this evening, and I came home. The evening has advanced to midnight, but not a word yet. No, it is not quite eleven, I see."

"You'll have the choice of weapons if they challenge you," said Eric; "you'll take pistols, I suppose? Just think of my living to really a.s.sist in a 'pistols-and-coffee-for-two' affair!"

"I daresay it will be coffee for two, served separately, and with no thought of pistols. I don't really believe it will come to anything.

There are ways of getting out of it," said Norman, lighting a cigarette.

"Will you refuse to fight?" asked Mae, and her heart, which had been white with fear for Norman the second before, flashed now with quick, red scorn. Even the Huguenot maiden would, after all, have despised her lover if he had quietly allowed her to tie the white handkerchief to his arm. Believe it, she loved him far, far better as she clung to him, pressed closely to his warm, living heart, because she realized in an agony that his honor was strong enough to burst even the tender bonds of her dear love, and that he would break from her round arms to rush into that ghostly, ghastly death-embrace on the morrow, at the dreadful knell of St. Bartholomew bells.

Suppose he had yielded. Suppose we saw him in the picture standing quietly, unresistingly, as her soft fingers bound the white badge, that meant protection and life, to his arm. Would not she, as well as he, have known that it was a badge of cowardice, and that he wore a heart as white?

And afterwards, would she have loved the living man, breathing in air heavy with the hearts' life of his brothers and friends, as she worshiped the dead man, whose cold body rested forever down deep in mother earth's brown, soft bosom, but whose very life of life swelled the great throng of heroes and martyrs who have closed their own eyes upon life's pictures, that those pictures might shine clearer and brighter to other eyes?

If the man had yielded, and the picture showed him thus, would we see the Huguenot lovers adorning half the houses of the land? Most often they are found in that particular corner of the home belonging to some maiden--that sacred room of her own, where she prays her prayers, and lives her most secret life. I have often wondered at the many girls who hang that especial picture over their fire-places. It must be a case of unconscious ideality. They realize that love must be so subject to honor that heart-strings would break for the sake of that honor, if need be, even though the harmonious love-song of two hearts is hushed; and what is the love-song of any two beings compared to a life-song of honor for the world--those wonderful life-songs that we all know? One of them sings itself so loudly to me now, over ages of romance and history, that I must let my simple story wait and give way to it for a minute.

There was a man who lived once. If G.o.d did not create him, Homer did.

The Oracle told him that the first man who put foot on the Trojan sh.o.r.es would die. He knew this before he started on his voyage for Greece. He left a wife and home behind him, whom he dearly loved. I wonder if he used to pace the deck of the rich barge, and listen to the men chatting around him, and smile as they planned of returning, proud and victorious, to their homes and their wives.

All the while under his smile he knew he was to die, not in the glory of fight, although his sword swung sharp and bright at his side, in any thrilling fashion, to be sung of and wept of by his fellows.

All the while the heavy barge sailed on, and at last land came in sight.

I wonder if his heart was full when he saw it? Did he remember his wife and his home? Did he feel his life strong within him, and eager as a battle-horse, as he neared the land where wars were to be fought, and glories won?

All the while his heart was firm. He stood the very foremost of them all, as they drifted quite in to the green, green sh.o.r.e. Around him men talked and laughed, and the sun shone. He may have laid his hand commandingly on some youthful shoulders and pushed back the eager boy who longed to bound first into this new world. He may have saved him thus from death for life. We do not know.

All we do know is, that with his own brave feet he marched ahead of them all, solemnly, smilingly, with the oracle in his heart. From the vessel to the green, green sh.o.r.e--such a little step. He leaps from the Grecian barge to the Trojan land, alive. Does he turn to look at his comrades and off eastwards, beyond homewards, with a great thrill before he falls dead? We do not know.

All we do know is, that WE thrill now as we see him leaping to his death, even over this gap of ages, through these shadows of unreality.

We have left Mae flashing scorn at Norman for a long while, a much longer while than she really needed for her flash, for Norman's angry start, violent exclamation, and indignant glance convinced her of her mistake before he answered her.

"I refuse to fight--I--Great--I beg your pardon, Miss Mae, but of course I'll fight. I only hope the fellow isn't such a craven as to let it blow over. However, I strongly suspect policy and his friends will keep him from it. For my part, I would like to break my lance for the poor woman.

Any good blow struck for the fair thing, helps old Mother earth a bit, I suppose."

"That's your idea of life?" queried Eric, rather gravely. "My efforts are all to push Eric Madden on his way a bit."

"And I haven't any idea; I just live," said Mae, "like a black and tan dog. I wish I were one. Then the only disagreeable part of me, my conscience, would be out of the way. But what has all this to do with the duel?" "That has something to do with it, I fancy," said Eric, rising and leaving the room hastily, as the bell rang. "No, stay where you are. I'll receive him in the little salon." Mae rose and walked to the fireside, and looked down on the two small logs of wet wood that sizzled on the fire-dogs. The faint, red flame that flickered around them, looked sullen and revengeful, she thought, as she watched the feeble blaze intently. It seemed hours since Eric had left the room.

What was Norman thinking? What was the stranger saying out in the little salon? No, no, she would not think thus. She would repeat something to quiet herself--poetry--what should it be? Ah, here is Eric.

It was Eric. His face was flushed. His lip curled. "Coward! craven!" he exclaimed, "Coward, craven."

"Well, tell us about it," said Norman, coolly, but a wave of color rushed over his face.

"O, palaver and stuff. Somebody's dreadfully ill--dying, I believe, and that somebody is wife, or mother, or son to this brute you challenged.

He's got to go, the coward. If you are ever in his vicinity again, and send him your card, he will understand it and meet you at such place and with such weapons as you prefer. Bah--too thin!" and Eric concluded with this emphatic statement.

Mae leaned her head against her two clasped hands which rested on the mantel-piece. How strangely everything looked; even the dim fire had a sort of aureole about it, as her eyes rested there again; but when one looks through tears, all things are haloed mistily. Norman turned and looked at Mae, as Eric walked impatiently about. She did not move or speak. He walked to her side, and stood looking down at her. The faint mist in her left eye was forming into a bright, clear globe as large as any April raindrop. Mae knew this, and knew it would fall, unless she put up her hand and brushed it away, and that would be worse. The color rose to her cheeks as she waited the dreadful moment. She was perfectly still, her hands clasped before her, her head bent, as the crystal drop gathered all the mist and halo in its full, round embrace, and pattered down upon the third finger of her left hand--her wedding-ring finger--and lay there, clear and sparkling as a diamond!

Norman Mann stooped and laid his hand over it. "You are glad, then!" "I should be sorry to have you die," said Mae, but her dimples and blushes and drooping eye-lids said, oh, a great deal more. "Good night," she fluttered, and ran off.

CHAPTER X.

Mae dreamed happy dreams that night, and awoke with a smile on her lips.

She dressed with the greatest care, put a touch of the color Norman liked at her throat, and fastened a charm he had given her to her bracelet. Still, she loitered on her way to the breakfast-room, and when she seated herself at the table, a sudden embarra.s.sment made her keep her eyes on her plate, or talk to Eric, or Edith, or any one but Norman.

Yet she was perfectly conscious of his every word and motion. She knew he only took two cups of coffee instead of three, and that he helped her to mandarins--a fruit of which she was very fond--five times, so that she had a plate heaping with golden untouched b.a.l.l.s before her. After breakfast, she felt a great desire to run away, so she asked Eric to take her to the Capitol, and leave her there for a time. "I want to see something solid this morning, that has lasted a long while, and the marbles will do me good."

Yes, Eric would take her at once. Would she go and get her hat? She went for it, and scolded herself all the time for running away when she wanted to stay home. Yet, after all, who dares put out one's hand to grasp the moon when at last it approaches? No woman, at any rate.

There was a malicious sort of teasing pleasure in running away from Norman, mingled with a shrinking modesty; and, besides, he knew the way to the Capitol, if he chose to follow, and knew she was to be there alone. So, on the whole, Mae went off with a blissful heart.

As she sat down in that celebrated room, immortalized by the Gladiator, the Faun and the Antinous, scales seemed to fall from her eyes and a weight from her heart. Life meant something more than the mere play she delighted in, or the labor she despised. She took it in in this way. She realized, first of all, the enduringness of the marbles. They had stood, they will stand, for thousands of years. What have stood? What will stand? Idle blocks of stone, without form or meaning, or simply three beautiful shapes? No; three souls, thinks Mae, three real people, and she looks at the abiding faun, freedom and joy of the Satyr, the continual sentimental sadness of the Antinous, and the perpetual brave death-struggle of the Gladiator. They are living on now, and touching our hearts. Their mute lips open other eloquent mouths to speak for them. Hawthorne and Byron tell us what the Faun's soul, what the Gladiator's soul, look from the white marbles to us, and the world daily repeats the story the Antinous whispers in his bent, beautiful head, the vanitas vanitatum that our own hearts whisper, when we drop earnest life for voluptuous pleasures.