"I wish that I could keep my own self from invading that realm as easily as I can keep others! Why is it that no man has ever yet been able to 'let the dead past bury its dead'? It seems a reasonable demand."

"He is a poor s.e.xton--this old man, the Past. I have watched him at his work, and he is powerless to dig his own grave, however many others he may have excavated!"

"The Present seems as helpless as the Past. I wonder if the future will heap enough new events over old ones to hide them from view?"

"Let a shadow bury the sun! Let a wave bury the sea," answered David bitterly.

"I am afraid you take life too seriously," said Mantel, on whose face appeared that inexplicable smile behind which he constantly retired.

"For, after all, life is nothing but a jest--a grim one, to be sure, but still a jest. The great host who entertains us in the banqueting hall of the universe must have his fun as well as any one, and we must laugh at his jokes even when they are at our expense. This is the least that guests can do."

"What, even when they writhe with pain?"

"Why not? We all have our fun! You used to scare timid little girls with jack-lanterns, put duck eggs under the old hen, and tie tin cans to dogs' tails. Where did you learn these tricks, if not from the great Trickmaster himself? Humor is hereditary! We get it from a divine original, and the Archetypal Joker must have His fun. It is better to take His horseplay in good part. We cannot stop Him, and we may as well laugh at what amuses Him. There is just as much fun in it as a fellow is able to see!"

"Then there is none, for I cannot see any. But if you get the comfort you seem to out of this philosophy of yours, I envy you. What do you call it? There ought to be a name for a metaphysic which seems to comprehend all the complex phenomena of life in one single, simple, principle of humor!"

"How would 'will-o'-the-wispism' do? There is a sort of elusive element in life, you see. Nature has no goal, yet leads us along the pathway by shows, enchantments and promises. She pays us in checks which she never cashes. She holds out a glittering prize, persuades us that it is worth any sacrifice, and when we make it, the bubble bursts, the sword descends, and you hear a low chuckle."

"You have described her method well enough, but how is it that you get your fun out of your knowledge?"

"It is the illusion itself! The boy chasing the rainbow is happier than the man counting his gold!"

"But what of that dreadful day of disenchantment when the illusion no longer deceives?"

"Ha! ha! Why, just put on your mask and smile. You can 'make believe'

you are happy, can't you?"

"I have got beyond that," David answered savagely. "I am not sitting for my picture to this great, grim artist friend of yours, who first sticks a knife into me, and then tells me to look pleasant that he may photograph me for his gallery of fools! I am tired of shams and make-believes. Life is a hideous mockery, and I say plainly that I loathe and abhor it!"

"Tush, tush, whatever else you do or do not do, keep sweet, David! Whom the G.o.ds would destroy they first make mad! You take yourself and your life too seriously, I tell you. Everything will go its own way whether you want it to or not! I used to read the cla.s.sics, once, and some fragments of those old fellows' sublime philosophy are still fresh in my memory. There is a sc.r.a.p in one of the Greek tragedies--the Oedipus, I think, that has always kept running through my head:

"'Why should we fear, when Chance rules everything, And foresight of the future there is none?

'Tis best to live at random as we can!

But thou, fear not that marriage with thy mother!

Many, ere now, have dreamed of things like this, But who cares least about them, bears life best!'

"There is wisdom for you! 'Who cares least about them bears life best!'

It's my philosophy in a nut-sh.e.l.l."

"Look here, Mantel," said David, "your philosophy may be all right, provided a man has not done a--provided--provided a man has not committed a-a crime! I don't care anything about your past in detail; but unless you have done some deed that hangs around your neck like a mill-stone, you don't know anything about the subject you are discussing."

Mantel dropped his eyes, and sat in silence. For the first time since David had known him, his fine face gave some genuine revelation of the emotions of his soul. Great tears gathered in his eyes, and his lips trembled. In a moment, he arose, took his hat, laid his hand gently upon the arm of his friend, and said "David, my dear fellow, we are skating on that thin ice again. We shall fall through if we are not careful, and get that chill you were talking about. Let's go out and take a walk.

Life is too deep for either you or me to fathom. I gave it up as a bad job long ago. What you just said about having a knife stuck into you comes the nearest to my own notion. I feel a good deal as I fancy a b.u.t.terfly must when he has been intercepted in a gay and joyous flight and stuck against the wall with a sharp pin, among a million other specimens which the great entomologist has gathered for some purpose which no one but himself can understand. All I try to do is to smile enough to cover up my contortions. Come, let us go. We need the air."

They went down into the streets and lost themselves in the busy crowd of care-enc.u.mbered men. Half unconscious of the throngs which jostled them, they strolled along Broadway, occasionally pausing to gaze into a shop window, to rest on a seat in a park, to listen to a street musician, or to watch some pa.s.sing incident in the great panorama which is ever unrolling itself in that brilliant and fascinating avenue.

Suddenly Mantel was startled by an abrupt change in the manner of his companion, who paused and stood as if rooted to the pavement, while his great blue eyes opened beyond their natural width with a fixed stare.

Following the direction of their gaze, Mantel saw that they were fixed on a blind beggar who sat on a stool at the edge of the sidewalk, silent and motionless like an old snag on the bank of a river--the perpetual stream of human life forever flowing by. His head was bare; in his outstretched hand he held a tin cup which jingled now and then as some compa.s.sionate traveler dropped him a coin; by his side, looking up occasionally into his unresponsive eyes, was a little terrier, his solitary companion and guide in a world of perpetual night.

The face of the man was a remarkable one, judged by almost any standard.

It was large in size, strong in outline, and although he was a beggar, it wore an expression of power, of independence and resolution like that of another Belisarius. But the feature which first arrested and longest held attention, was an enormous mustache. It could not have been less than fourteen inches from tip to tip, was carefully trimmed and trained, and although the man himself was still comparatively young, was white as snow. Occasionally he set his cup on his knee and with both hands twisted the ends into heavy ropes.

It was a striking face and exacted from every observer more than a pa.s.sing look; but remarkable as it was, Mantel could not discover any reason for the strained and terrible interest of his companion, who stood staring so long and in such a noticeable way, that he was in danger of himself attracting the attention of the curious crowd.

Seeing this, Mantel took him by the arm. "What is the matter?" he asked.

David started. "My G.o.d," he cried, drawing his hand over his eyes like a man awakening from a dream; "it is he!"

"It is who? Are you mad! Come away! People are observing you. If there is anything wrong, we must move or get into trouble."

"Let me alone!" David replied, shaking off his hand. "I would rather die than lose sight of that man."

"Then come into this doorway where you can watch him un.o.bserved, for you are making a spectacle of yourself. Come, or I shall drag you."

With his eyes still riveted on that strange countenance, David yielded to the pressure of his friend's hand and they retired to a hallway whence he could watch the beggar un.o.bserved. His whole frame was quivering with excitement and he kept murmuring to himself: "It is he.

It is he! I cannot be mistaken! Nature never made his double! But how he has changed! How old and white he is! It cannot be his ghost, can it? If it were night I might think so, but it is broad daylight! This man is living flesh and blood and my hand is not, after all, the hand of a mur--"

"Hush!" cried Mantel; "you are talking aloud!"

"Yes, I am talking aloud," he answered, "and I mean to talk louder yet!

I want you to hear that I am not a murderer, a murderer! Do you understand? I am going to rush out into the streets to cry out at the top of my voice--I am not a murderer!"

Terrified at his violence, Mantel pushed him farther back into the doorway; but he sprang out again as if his very life depended upon the sight of the great white face.

"Be quiet!" Mantel cried, seizing his arm with an iron grip.

The pain restored him to his senses. "What did I say?" he asked anxiously.

"You said, 'I am not a murderer,'" Mantel whispered.

"And it is true! I am not!" he replied, with but little less violence than before.

"Look at this hand, Mantel! I have not looked at it myself for more than three years without seeing spots of blood on it! And now it looks as white as snow to me! See how firm I can hold it! And yet through all those long and terrible years, it has trembled like a leaf. Tell me, am I not right? Is it not white and firm?"

"Yes, yes. It is; but hush. You are in danger of being overheard, and if you are not careful, in a moment more we shall be in the hands of the police!"

"No matter if I am," he cried, almost beside himself, and rapturously embracing his friend. "Nothing could give me more pleasure than a trial for my crime, for my victim would be my witness! He is not dead. He is out there in the street. Mantel, you don't know what happiness is! You don't know how sweet it is to be alive! A mountain has been taken from my shoulders. I no longer have any secret! I will tell you the whole story of my life, now."

"Not now; but later on, when we are alone. Let us leave this spot and go to our rooms."

"No, no! Don't stir! We might lose him, and if we did, I could never persuade myself that this was not a dream! We will stay here until he leaves, and then we will follow him and prove beyond a doubt that this is a real man and not the vision of an overheated brain. We will follow him, I say, and if he is really flesh and blood, and not a poor ghost, we will help him, you and I. Poor old man! How sad he looks! And no wonder! You don't know of what I robbed him!"

David had now grown more quiet, and they stood patiently waiting for the time to come when the old beggar should leave his post and retire to his home, if home he had.

At last he received his signal for departure. A shadow fell from the roof of the tall building opposite, upon the pupil of an eye, which perhaps felt the darkness it could not see. The building was his dial.

Like millions of his fellow creatures, he measured life by advancing shadows.

He arose, and in his mien and movements there was a certain majesty.