Adventure Magazine Cover — page 159: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE WAY OF SINNERS dead, living, or to be born. Stella and I had not thought of marriage; ’twas her mother had done that; her mother and that cat-faced aunt; because Stella had wished to giveme money. Yet old woman Olivieri was forever cackling about love, the only true reason to wed. What in the name of God had money to do with love—or dresses either, or lieutenant’s houses? Yet ’twas such things that were of the first importance in marriage. "Twas such things that had killed our love— Now I rolled on my face again, and lay there sweating; I could not free my mind of Stella, though between the vision of her and my imagination rose processions of folk. Signora Olivieri and her sister at their head; then files of people I had seen in the Streets of Rometia, of Siena, of Venice, of Mantua, of Florence—of all the world; women having found in marriage more chil- dren than their love would encompass, and therefore furious lest young folk should love at all; other women, their beauty and happiness faded in the airless room of mat- rimony, and so eager that all beauty and happiness should forthwith be imprisoned therein; smug liars of old men, wise in the ways of infidelity, exhorting the young to hold sacred the bond, and enjoying by de- fault the birthright of fettered youth; young men—myself among them—carrying the burdens of their strength, without its rec- ompense; Church and State smiling on the horrid scene; blessing it, and studying con- tinually how to turn it still more to their PLONE, By my tent-door, the sentry’s pike clanged against his armor; I heard his mail jingle as he shifted his position; and of a sudden I saw myself marching guard on the city walls of Rometia, at night, looking down, to my right, upon the glint of the moat in the moonlight; on the other side, at the smoking chimneys, fragrant with wood smoke, of the red-roofed houses hud- dled against the wall. This was the third watch, and the town was asleep, its streets deserted, and its windows dark—save for one, meseemed, which gleamed ruddily at the level of the sentry-walk itself. I went toward it; and lo! ’twas not a window, but a door: a little low door whose posts were bulging beams of oak and whose sill was a great stone, scrubbed white as snow; moreover there was a little bridge with crooked hand- 157 rails of wood leading to it from the wall. This bridge I crossed. Flowers entwined it, and the air was sweet with them; and | knocked at the door that stood ajar. There was no answer; I knocked again, and my heart began to beat as if it would suffocate me; yet ’twas pleasant. Still there was no answer; so, leaning my halberd against the wall, I pushed open the door and entered. "Twas a door on top of a house, surely; a strange thing, but here were steps lead- ing downward—half a dozen of them, curi- ously curving; and at their foot was such a room as lies warm under the tiles, filled with strange old stuffs, and outworn dresses of thick silks; and chairs on which great-grandfathers have sat; and dark pictures of folk long gone into the darkness. A lamp burned bright on the table; a log crackled on the hearth and a cat was stretched out before it, licking one paw; but of human habitant I saw no trace until, turning suddenly, I found standing behind me a little girl, Perhaps she had thirteen years; she was dressed in dark cloth, with a scarlet girdle, and she had been standing there silent, looking at me; when I turned, she looked at me still, smiling gravely; and I smiled at her. Also, the strangely joyous thundering of my heart, which I had felt at the little door, began again. ‘What is your name?”’ I asked her. **Maria,” said she. ¥ could not take my eyes from hers. “It is a saint’s name,” she said, in a low voice that trembled. “Tt was my mother’s name.” Then I felt a great hand on my shoulder, striving to thrust me out of the room; and I swung about, desperately resolved that I would not go; and another hand seized me, and I fought; until the voice that was cry- ing, ‘Captain! Captain!” struck my ears as Benedetto’s; and my eyes opened; and the warm light of the attic room changed to the cold gray mist of dawn; and I found my- self sitting shivering upright in bed, grip- ping my lieutenant’s wrists while the face of the sentry, grinning, peered in past the flap on the tent. “Art awake now?” ‘“Aye.”’ And Benedetto loosed me. wiped his brow. “I thought thou’d have strangled me, Captain. Whew! ’Tis dawn, and the men are eating.” “Good. I will come.”’ He NOOK (C@