The Argosy — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

All Souls Eve. 71 Francis?” ventured Paul, who by no means admired the position assigned him in the march. ““ My eyes have ached to see him so long that they would rejoice in the sight,” replied his mistress, with valiance. “Toh !—igh!—igh!” burst out Mam’selle Anastasie, in a succes- sion of shrill screams. ‘‘ What’s that looking over the hedge?” Considerable confusion ensued. Cries of horror. Everybody laying hold of everybody else’s clothes. “T tell you what it is, ladies,” said the unfortunate torchbearer, standing stock still, ‘“‘if you are to frighten one like this, I can’t go on in advance. Madame must forgive me when I say Id rather lose my place first.” “Courage,” commanded Madame Latange. “If you all walk linked, and bend your eyes on the ground, there'll be no danger of seeing anything. As for Mademoiselle Anastasie, should she frighten us again, I shall leave her in the hedge by herself till we come back.” The threat imposed silence on Mademoiselle Anastasie, and the pro- cession resumed its march. It came to the gate of the cemetery, and bore on through its cold grass to the corner, where stood the tablet to the memory of Francis Latange. It was a handsome erection of black marble: a white urn and drooping willow carved on it. Francois Latange, Fils unique de Pierre Latange et de Francoise de Brie. Tué devant Sebastopol le 18 de Juin, 1855, agé de 22 ans. Priez pour lui. They sank on their knees around the stone, and the sobs of the mother broke forth aloud. Clara Fitzgerald’s head was pressed on the cold marble, her grief was silent; but many wept in concert with Madame. And so they knelt, and sobbed, and prayed, their faces hidden: a strange group to look on, in that dark night, in that lonely graveyard ! Paul’s torch was coming to an end. Rising, he proceeded to light another. ‘This little diversion caused la mere Coe to look up. Being middle-aged and stout, she was getting tired of her kneeling position. The cramp was coming into her legs. A hideous shriek ! an unearthly howl! and Madame Coe, from whom they proceeded, flung her arms round the legs of the startled Paul, and buried her face against them, and howled interminably. Whatever had taken la mére Coe? ‘There he is! his own spectre!” she burst forth, her voice shrill with terror. ‘I knew it would appear.” Paul raised his torch ; the unhappy devotees looked as high in the air as its light would allow. Standing close by his own tombstone, his head bending forward as if to read its inscription, was the spectre ot Francis Latange. Thin, worn, his cheeks pale, his eyes sunk, there it CoOnmmiclooolkks am