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THE COLLECTED WORKS
OF AMBROSE BIERCE

VOLUME II

m

on

The publishers certify that this edition of

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
AMBROSE BIERCE

consists of two hundred and fifty numbered sets, auto-
graphed by the author, and that th^ number of this
set is .^("hii^P j^

Copyright, 1909, by
The Neale Publishing Company

PREFACE
TO THE FIRST EDITION

Denied existence by the chief publishing
houses of the country, this book owes itself
to Mr. E. L. G. Steele, merchant, of this
city. In attesting Mr. Steele's faith in his
judgment and his friend, it will serve its au-
thor's main and best ambition.

A. B.

San Francisco, Sept. 4, 1891.

CONTENTS

PAGE

A Horseman in the Sky 15

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge 27

Chickamauga 46

A Son of the Gods 58

One of the Missing 71

Killed at Resaca 93

The Affair at Coulter's Notch 105

The Coup de Grace 122

Parker Adderson, Philosopher .133

An Affair of Outposts 146

The Story of A Conscience 165

One Kind of Officer 178

One Officer, One Man 197

George Thurston 209

The Mocking-Bird 218

CIVILIANS

The Man Out of the Nose 233

An Adventure at Brownville 247

The Famous Gilson Bequest 266

CONTENTS

PAOE

The Applicant 281

A Watcher by the Dead 290

The Man and the Snake 3"

A Holy Terror 324

The Suitable Surroundings 350

The Boarded Window 364

A Lady from Red Horse Z7Z

The Eyes of the Panther 385

SOLDIERS

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY

ONE sunny afternoon in the autumn
of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a
clump of laurel by the side of a road
in western Virginia. He lay at full
length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon
the toes, his head upon the left forearm. His
extended right hand loosely grasped his rifle.
But for the somewhat methodical disposition
of his limbs and a slight rhythmic movement
of the cartridge-box at the back of his belt he
might have been thought to be dead. He was
asleep at his post of duty. But if detected he
would be dead shortly afterward, death being
the just and legal penalty of his crime.

The clump of laurel in which the criminal
lay was in the angle of a road which after
ascending southward a steep acclivity to that
point turned sharply to the west, running
along the summit for perhaps one hundred
yards. There it turned southward again and
went zigzagging downward through the for-'
est. At the salient of that second angle was a

16 THE COLLECTED WORKS

large flat rock, jutting out northward, over-
looking the deep valley from which the road
ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a
stone dropped from its outer edge would have
fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to
the tops of the pines. The angle where the
soldier lay was on another spur of the same
cliff. Had he been awake he would have com-
manded a view, not only of the short arm of
the road and the jutting rock, but of the entire
profile of the cliff below it. It might well
have made him giddy to look.

The country was wooded everywhere ex-
cept at the bottom of the valley to the north-
ward, where there was a small natural
meadow, through which flowed a stream
scarcely visible from the valley's rim. This
open ground looked hardly larger than an
ordinary door-yard, but was really several
acres in extent. Its green was more vivid than
that of the inclosing forest. Away beyond it
rose a line of giant cliffs similar to those upon
which we are supposed to stand in our survey
of the savage scene, and through which the
road had somehow made its climb to the
summit. The configuration of the valley, in-
deed, was such that from this point of observa-
tion it seemed entirely shut in, and one could

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 17

but have wondered how the road which found
a way out of it had found a way into it, and
whence came and whither went the waters of
the stream that parted the meadow more than
a thousand feet below.

No country is so wild and difficult but men
will make it a theatre of war; concealed in the
forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap,
in which half a hundred men in possession of
the exits might have starved an army to sub-
mission, lay five regiments of Federal in-
fantry. They had marched all the previous
day and night and were resting. At nightfall
they would take to the road again, climb to the
place where their unfaithful sentinel now
slept, and descending the other slope of the
ridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about
midnight. Their hope was to surprise it, for
the road led to the rear of it. In case of fail-
ure, their position would be perilous in the
extreme; and fail they surely would should
accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the
movement.

II

The sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel
was a young Virginian named Carter Druse.
He was the son of wealthy parents, an only
child, and had known such ease and cultiva-

18 THE COLLECTED WORKS

tion and high living as wealth and taste were
able to command in the mountain country of
western Virginia. His home was but a few
miles from where he now lay. One morning
he had risen from the breakfast-table and
said, quietly but gravely: "Father, a Union
regiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going
to join it."

The father lifted his leonine head, looked at
the son a moment in silence, and replied:
"Well, go, sir, and whatever may occur do
what you conceive to be your duty. Virginia,
to which you are a traitor, must get on with-
out you. Should we both live to the end of
the war, we will speak further of the matter.
Your mother, as the physician has informed
you, is in a most critical condition ; at the best
she cannot be with us longer than a few weeks,
but that time is precious. It would be better
not to disturb her."

So Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his
father, who returned the salute with a stately
courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the
home of his childhood to go soldiering. By
conscience and courage, by deeds of devotion
and daring, he soon commended himself to his
fellows and his officers; and it was to these
qualities and to some knowledge of the coun-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 19

try that he owed his selection for his present
perilous duty at the extreme outpost. Never-
theless, fatigue had been stronger than resolu-
tion and he had fallen asleep. What good or
bad angel came in a dream to rouse him from
his state of crime, who shall say? Without a
movement, without a sound, in the profound
silence and the languor of the late afternoon,
some invisible messenger of fate touched with
unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness
— whispered into the ear of his spirit the mys-
terious awakening word which no human lips
ever have spoken, no human memory ever has
recalled. He quietly raised his forehead from
his arm and looked between the masking stems
of the laurels, instinctively closing his right
hand about the stock of his rifle.

His first feeling was a keen artistic delight.
On a colossal pedestal, the cliff, — motionless
at the extreme edge of the capping rock and
sharply outlined against the sky, — was an
equestrian statue of impressive dignity. The
figure of the man sat the figure of the horse,
straight and soldierly, but with the repose of a
Grecian god carved in the marble which lim-
its the suggestion of activity. The gray cos-
tume harmonized with its aerial background;
the metal of accoutrement and caparison was

20 THE COLLECTED WORKS

softened and subdued by the shadow; the
animal's skin had no points of high light. A
carbine strikingly foreshortened lay across the
pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the
right hand grasping it at the " grip " ; the left
hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible.
In silhouette against the sky the profile of the
horse was cut with the sharpness of a cameo ;
it looked across the heights of air to the con-
fronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider,
turned slightly away, showed only an outline
of temple and beard; he was looking down-
ward to the bottom of the valley. Magnified
by its lift against the sky and by the soldier's
testifying sense of the formidableness of a
near enemy the group appeared of heroic, al-
most colossal, size.

For an instant Druse had a strange, half-
defined feeling that he had slept to the end of
the war and was looking upon a noble work
of art reared upon that eminence to com-
memorate the deeds of an heroic past of which
he had been an inglorious part. The feeling
was dispelled by a slight movement of the
group : the horse, without moving its feet, had
drawn its body slightly backward from the
verge; the man remained immobile as be-
fore. Broad awake and keenly alive to the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 21

significance of the situation, Druse now
brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek
by cautiously pushing the barrel forward
through the bushes, cocked the piece, and
glancing through the sights covered a vital
spot of the horseman's breast. A touch upon
the trigger and all would have been well with
Carter Druse. At that instant the horseman
turned his head and looked in the direction of
his concealed foeman — seemed to look into his
very face, into his eyes, into his brave, com-
passionate heart.

Is it then so terrible to kill an enemy in
war — an enemy who has surprised a secret
vital to the safety of one's self and comrades
— an enemy more formidable for his know-
ledge than all his army for its numbers?
Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every
limb, turned faint, and saw the statuesque
group before him as black figures, rising, fall-
ing, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a
fiery sky. His hand fell away from his
weapon, his head slowly dropped until his
face rested on the leaves in which he lay.
This courageous gentleman and hardy soldier
was near swooning from intensity of emotion.

It was not for long; in another moment his
face was raised from earth, his hands resumed

22 THE COLLECTED WORKS

their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought
the trigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear,
conscience and reason sound. He could not
hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him
would but send him dashing to his camp with
his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was
plain : the man must be shot dead from am-
bush— without warning, without a moment's
spiritual preparation, with never so much as
an unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his
account. But no — there is a hope; he may
have discovered nothing — perhaps he is but
admiring the sublimity of the landscape. If
permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly
away in the direction whence he came.
Surely it will be possible to judge at the in-
stant of his withdrawing whether he knows.
It may well be that his fixity of attention —
Druse turned his head and looked through the
deeps of air downward, as from the surface
to the bottom of a translucent sea. He saw
creeping across the green meadow a sinuous
line of figures of men and horses — some fool-
ish commander was permitting the soldiers of
his escort to water their beasts in the open, in
plain view from a dozen summits I

Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley
and fixed them again upon the group of man

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 2a

and horse in the sky, and again it was through
the sights of his rifle. But this time his aim
was at the horse. In his memory, as if they
were a divine mandate, rang the words of his
father at their parting: "Whatever may oc-
cur, do what you conceive to be your duty."
He was calm now. His teeth were firmly but
not rigidly closed ; his nerves were as tranquil
as a sjeeping babe's — not a tremor affected
any muscle of his body; his breathing, until
suspended in the act of taking aim, was regu-
lar and slow. Duty had conquered ; the spirit
had said to the body: "Peace, be still." He
fired.

Ill
An officer of the Federal force, who in a
spirit of adventure or in quest of knowledge
had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and
with aimless feet had made his way to the
lower edge of a small open space near the foot
of the cliff, was considering what he had to
gain by pushing his exploration further. At
a distance of a quarter-mile before him, but
apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its
fringe of pines the gigantic face of rock, tow-
ering to so great a height above him that it
made him giddy to look up to where its edge
cut a sharp, rugged line against the sky. It

24 THE COLLECTED WORKS

presented a clean, vertical profile against a
background of blue sky to a point half the
way down, and of distant hills, hardly less
blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base.
Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its
summit the officer saw an astonishing sight — a
man on horseback riding down into the valley
through the air!

Straight upright sat the rider, in military
fashion, with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong
clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from
too impetuous a plunge. From his bare head
his long hair streamed upward, waving like a
plume. His hands were concealed in the
cloud of the horse's lifted mane. The ani-
mal's body was as level as if every hoof-
stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its
motions were those of a wild gallop, but even
as the officer looked they ceased, with all the
legs thrown sharply forward as in the act of
alighting from a leap. But this was a flight I

Filled with amazement and terror by this
apparition of a horseman in the sky — half be-
lieving himself the chosen scribe of some new
Apocalypse, the officer was overcome by the
intensity of his emotions; his legs failed him
and he fell. Almost at the same instant he

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 25

heard a crashing sound in the trees — a sound
that died without an echo — and all was still.

The officer rose to his feet, trembling.
The familiar sensation of an abraded shin re-
called his dazed faculties. Pulling himself
together he ran rapidly obliquely away from
the cliff to a point distant from its foot; there-
about he expected to find his man ; and there-
about he naturally failed. In the fleeting in-
stant of his vision his imagination had been
so wrought upon by the apparent grace and
ease and intention of the marvelous perform-
ance that it did not occur to him that the line
of march of aerial cavalry is directly down-
ward, and that he could find the objects of his
search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-
hour later he returned to camp.

This officer was a wise man ; he knew better
than to tell an incredible truth. He said
nothing of what he had seen. But when the
commander asked him if in his scout he had
learned anything of advantage to the expedi-
tion he answered :

"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down
into this valley from the southward."

The commander, knowing better, smiled.

26 THE COLLECTED WORKS

IV

After firing his shot, Private Carter Druse
reloaded his rifle and resumed his watch.
Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Fed-
eral sergeant crept cautiously to him on hands
and knees. Druse neither turned his head nor
looked at him, but lay without motion or sign
of recognition.

" Did you fire?" the sergeant whispered.

" Yes."

"At what?"

" A horse. It was standing on yonder rock
— pretty far out. You see it is no longer
there. It went over the cliff."

The man's face was white, but he showed
no other sign of emotion. Having answered,
he turned away his eyes and said no more.
The sergeant did not understand.

" See here. Druse," he said, after a mo-
ment's silence, "it's no use making a mys-
tery. I order you to report. Was there any-
body on the horse?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"My father."

The sergeant rose to his feet and walked
away. " Good God 1 " he said.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 27

AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK
BRIDGE

A MAN stood upon a railroad bridge
in northern Alabama, looking down
into the swift water twenty feet be-
low. The man's hands were behind
his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A
rope closely encircled his neck. It was at-
tached to a stout cross-timber above his head
and the slack fell to the level of his knees.
Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers sup-
porting the metals of the railway supplied a
footing for him and his executioners — two
private soldiers of the Federal army, directed
by a sergeant who in civil life may have been
a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the
same temporary platform was an officer in the
uniform of his rank, armed. He was a cap-
tain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the position known as
" support," that is to say, vertical in front of
the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the
forearm thrown straight across the chest — a

28 THE COLLECTED WORKS

formal and unnatural position, enforcing an
erect carriage of the body. It did not appear
to be the duty of these two men to know what
was occurring at the centre of the bridge;
they merely blockaded the two ends of the
foot planking that traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in
sight; the railroad ran straight away into a
forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was
lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost
farther along. The other bank of the stream
was open ground — a gentle acclivity topped
with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop-
holed for rifles, with a single embrasure
through which protruded the muzzle of a
brass cannon commanding the bridge. Mid-
way of the slope between bridge and fort were
the spectators — a single company of infantry
in line, at " parade rest," the butts of the rifles
on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly
backward against the right shoulder, the
hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant
stood at the right of the line, the point of his
sword upon the ground, his left hand resting
upon his right. Excepting the group of four
at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved.
The company faced the bridge, staring ston-
ily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 29

banks of the stream, might have been statues
to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with
folded arms, silent, observing the work of his
subordinates, but making no sign. Death is
a dignitary who when he comes announced is
to be received with formal manifestations of
respect, even by those most familiar with him.
In the code of military etiquette silence and
fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged
was apparently about thirty-five years of age.
He was a civilian, if one might judge from
his habit, which was that of a planter. His
features were good — a straight nose, firm
mouth, broad forehead, from which his long,
dark hair was combed straight back, falling
behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting
frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed
beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large
and dark gray, and had a kindly expression
which one would hardly have expected in one
whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this
was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military
code makes provision for hanging many kinds
of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two
private soldiers stepped aside and each drew
away the plank upon which he had been

30 THE COLLECTED WORKS

standing. The sergeant turned to the captain,
saluted and placed himself immediately be-
hind that officer, who in turn moved apart one
pace. These movements left the condemned
man and the sergeant standing on the two ends
of the same plank, which spanned three of the
cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which
the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached
a fourth. This plank had been held in place
by the weight of the captain ; it was now held
by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the
former the latter would step aside, the plank
would tilt and the condemned man go down
between two ties. The arrangement com-
mended itself to his judgment as simple and
effective. His face had not been covered nor
his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at
his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze
wander to the swirling water of the stream
racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of
dancing driftwood caught his attention and
his eyes followed it down the current. How
slowly it appeared to move! What a slugg-
ish stream !

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last
thoughts upon his wife and children. The
water, touched to gold by the early sun, the
brooding mists under the banks at some dist-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 31

ance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers,
the piece of drift — all had distracted him.
And now he became conscious of a new dis-
turbance. Striking through the thought of
his dear ones was a sound which he could
neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, dist-
inct, metallic percussion like the stroke of
a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil ; it had
the same ringing quality. He wondered
what it was, and whether immeasurably dis-
tant or near by — it seemed both. Its recurr-
ence was regular, but as slow as the tolling
of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with
impatience and — he knew not why — appre-
hension. The intervals of silence grew pro-
gressively longer ; the delays became madden-
ing. With their greater infrequency the
sounds increased in strength and sharpness.
They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife;
he feared he would shriek. What he heard
was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the
water below him. " If I could free my
hands," he thought, " I might throw off the
noose and spring into the stream. By diving
I could evade the bullets and, swimming
vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods
and get away home. My home, thank God,

32 THE COLLECTED WORKS

is as yet outside their lines ; my wife and little
ones are still beyond the invader's farthest
advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set
down in words, were flashed into the doomed
man's brain rather than evolved from it the
captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant

stepped aside.

II

Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter,
of an old and highly respected Alabama fam-
ily. Being a slave owner and like other slave
owners a politician he was naturally an orig-
inal secessionist and ardently devoted to the
Southern cause. Circumstances of an imper-
ious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate
here, had prevented him from taking service
with the gallant army that had fought the dis-
astrous campaigns ending with the fall of
Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious
restraint, longing for the release of his
energies, the larger life of the soldier, the op-
portunity for distinction. That opportunity,
he felt, would come, as it comes to all in war
time. Meanwhile he did what he could.
No service was too humble for him to per-
form in aid of the South, no adventure too
perilous for him to undertake if consistent

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 33

with the character of a civilian who was at
heart a soldier, and who in good faith and
without too much qualification assented to at
least a part of the frankly villainous dictum
that all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Farquhar and his wife
were sitting on a rustic bench near the en-
trance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode
up to the gate and asked for a drink of water.
Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve
him with her own white hands. While she
was fetching the water her husband ap-
proached the dusty horseman and inquired
eagerly for news from the front.

"The Yanks are repairing the railroads,"
said the man, " and are getting ready for an-
other advance. They have reached the Owl
Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stock-
ade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere,
declaring that any civilian caught interfering
with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains
will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."

" How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?"
Farquhar asked.

"About thirty miles."

" Is there no force on this side the creek?"

" Only a picket post half a mile out, on the

34 THE COLLECTED WORKS

railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of
the bridge."

" Suppose a man — a civilian and student of
hanging — should elude the picket post and
perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said
Farquhar, smiling, "what could he accom-
plish?"

The soldier reflected. "I was there a
month ago," he replied. "I observed that
the flood of last winter had lodged a great
quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier
at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and
would burn like tow."

The lady had now brought the water, which
the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremon-
iously, bowed to her husband and rode away.
An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the
plantation, going northward in the direction
from which he had come. He was a Federal
scout.

Ill

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight down-
ward through the bridge he lost consciousness
and was as one already dead. From this state
he was awakened — ages later, it seemed to him
- — by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his
throat, followed by a sense of suffocation.
Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 35

his neck downward through every fibre of his
body and limbs. These pains appeared to
flash along well-defined lines of ramification
and to beat with an inconceivably rapid
periodicity. They seemed like streams of
pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable
temperature. As to his head, he was con-
scious of nothing but a feeling of fulness — of
congestion. These sensations were unaccom-
panied by thought. The intellectual part of
his nature was already effaced ; he had power
only to feel, and feeling was torment. He
was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a
luminous cloud, of which he was now merely
the fiery heart, without material substance, he
swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation,
like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with
terrible suddenness, the light about him shot
upward with the noise of a loud plash; a
frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was
cold and dark. The power of thought was
restored; he knew that the rope had broken
and he had fallen into the stream. There was
no additional strangulation; the noose about
his neck was already suffocating him and kept
the water from his lungs. To die of hanging
at the bottom of a river! — the idea seemed to
him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the

36 THE COLLECTED WORKS

darkness and saw above him a gleam of light,
but how distant, how inaccessible! He was
still sinking, for the light became fainter and
fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it
began to grow and brighten, and he knew
that he was rising toward the surface — knew it
with reluctance, for he was now very com-
fortable. " To be hanged and drowned," he
thought, " that is not so bad ; but I do not wish
to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not
fair."

He was not conscious of an effort, but a
sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he
was trying to free his hands. He gave the
struggle his attention, as an idler might ob-
serve the feat of a juggler, without interest in
the outcome. What splendid effort! — what
magnificent, what superhuman strength ! Ah,
that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord
fell away; his arms parted and floated up-
ward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the
growing light. He watched them with a new
interest as first one and then the other pounced
upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away
and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations re-
sembling those of a water-snake. " Put it
back, put it back!" He thought he shouted
these words to his hands, for the undoing of

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 37

the noose had been succeeded by the direst
pang that he had yet experienced. His neck
ached horribly; his brain was on fire; his
heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave
a great leap, trying to force itself out at his
mouth. His whole body was racked and
wrenched with an insupportable anguish 1
But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the
command. They beat the water vigorously
with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to
the surface. He felt his head emerge; his
eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest
expanded convulsively, and with a supreme
and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a
great draught of air, which instantly he ex-
pelled in a shriek!

He was now in full possession of his phys-
ical senses. They were, indeed, preternatu-
rally keen and alert. Something in the awful
disturbance of his organic system had so
exalted and refined them that they made
record of things never before perceived. He
felt the ripples upon his face and heard their
separate sounds as they struck. He looked at
the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the
individual trees, the leaves and the veining of
each leaf — saw the very insects upon them:
the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray

38 THE COLLECTED WORKS

spiders stretching their webs from twig to
twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the
dewdrops upon a million blades of grass.
The humming of the gnats that danced above
the eddies of the stream, the beating of the
dragon-flies' wings, the strokes of the water-
spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their
boat — all these made audible music. A fish
slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the
rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down
the stream; in a moment the visible world
seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the
pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort,
the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the
sergeant, the two privates, his executioners.
They were in silhouette against the blue sky.
They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at
him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but
did not fire ; the others were unarmed. Their
movements were grotesque and horrible, their
forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and
something struck the water smartly within a
few inches of his head, spattering his face
with spray. He heard a second report, and
saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his
shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 39

from the muzzle. The man in the water saw
the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into
his own through the sights of the rifle. He
observed that it was a gray eye and remem-
bered having read that gray eyes were keen-
est, and that all famous markmen had them.
Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and
turned him half round; he was again look-
ing into the forest on the bank opposite the
fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a
monotonous singsong now rang out behind
him and came across the water with a dis-
tinctness that pierced and subdued all other
pounds, even the beating of the ripples in his
ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented
camps enough to know the dread significance
of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant;
the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in
the morning's work. How coldly and piti-
lessly— with what an even, calm intonation,
presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the
men — with what accurately measured inter-
vals fell those cruel words :

"Attention, company 1 . . . Shoulder arms!
. . . Ready I . . . Aiml . . . Fire!"

Farquhar dived — dived as deeply as he
could. The water roared in his ears like the

40 THE COLLECTED WORKS

voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled
thunder of the volley and, rising again toward
the surface, met shining bits of metal, singu-
larly flattened, oscillating slowly downward.
Some of them touched him on the face and
hands, then fell away, continuing their des-
cent One lodged between his collar and
neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he
snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for
breath, he saw that he had been a long time
under water; he was perceptibly farther down
stream — nearer to safety. The soldiers had
almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were
drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and
thrust into their sockets. The two senti-
nels fired again, independently and ineffect-
ually.

The hunted man saw all this over his
shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously
with the current. His brain was as energetic
as his arms and legs; he thought with the
rapidity of lightning.

" The officer," he reasoned, " will not make
that martinet's error a second time. It is as
easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He
has probably already given the command to

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 41

fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge
them all!"

An appalling plash within two yards of
him was followed by a loud, rushing sound,
diminuendo, which seemed to travel back
through the air to the fort and died in an ex-
plosion which stirred the very river to its
deeps! A rising sheet of water curved
over him, fell down upon him, blinded him,
strangled him! The cannon had taken a
hand in the game. As he shook his head free
from the commotion of the smitten water he
heard the deflected shot humming through the
air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking
and smashing the branches in the forest be-
yond.

"They will not do that again," he thought;
"the next time they will use a charge of
grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun ; the
smoke will apprise me — the report arrives too
late; it lags behind the missile. That is a
good gun."

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and
round — spinning like a top. The water, the
banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort
and men — all were commingled and blurred.
Objects were represented by their colors only;
circular horizontal streaks of color — that was

42 THE COLLECTED WORKS

all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex
and was being whirled on with a velocity of
advance and gyration that made him giddy
and sick. In a few moments he was flung
upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of
the stream — the southern bank — and behind a
projecting point which concealed him from
his enemies. The sudden arrest of his mo-
tion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the
gravel, restored him, and he wept with de-
light. He dug his fingers into the sand,
threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly
blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies,
emeralds ; he could think of nothing beautiful
which it did not resemble. The trees upon
the bank were giant garden plants ; he noted
a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled
the fragrance of their blooms. A strange,
roseate light shone through the spaces among
their trunks and the wind made in their
branches the music of aeolian harps. He had
no wish to perfect his escape — was content
to remain in that enchanting spot until re-
taken.

A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the
branches high above his head roused him
from his dream. The bafiled cannoneer had
fired him a random farewell. He sprang to

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 43

his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and
plunged into the forest.

All that day he traveled, laying his course
by the rounding sun. The forest seemed in-
terminable; nowhere did he discover a break
in it, not even a woodman's road. He had
not known that he lived in so wild a region.
There was something uncanny in the revela-
tion.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore,
famishing. The thought of his wife and child-
ren urged him on. At last he found a road
which led him in what he knew to be the right
direction. It was as wide and straight as a
city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No
fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere.
Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested
human habitation. The black bodies of the
trees formed a straight wall on both sides,
terminating on the horizon in a point, like a
diagram in a lesson in perspective. Over-
head, as he looked up through this rift in the
wood, shone great golden stars looking un-
familiar and grouped in strange constellations.
He was sure they were arranged in some
order which had a secret and malign signific-
ance. The wood on either side was full of
singular noises, among which — once, twice.

44 THE COLLECTED WORKS

and again — he distinctly heard whispers in an
unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand
to it he found it horribly swollen. He knew
that it had a circle of black where the rope
had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he
could no longer close them. His tongue was
swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by
thrusting it forward from between his teeth
into the cold air. How softly the turf had
carpeted the untraveled avenue — he could no
longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had
fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees
another scene — perhaps he has merely recov-
ered from a delirium. He stands at the gate
of his own home. All is as he left it, and all
bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine.
He must have traveled the entire night. As
he pushes open the gate and passes up the
wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female
garments ; his wife, looking fresh and cool and
sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet
him. At the bottom of the steps she stands
waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an atti-
tude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah,
how beautiful she is! He springs forward
with extended arms. As he is about to clasp

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 45

her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of
the neck; a blinding white light blazes all
about him with a sound like the shock of a
cannon — then all is darkness and silence 1

Peyton Farquhar was dead ; his body, with
a broken neck, swung gently from side to side
beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

46 THE COLLECTED WORKS

CHICKAMAUGA

ONE sunny autumn afternoon a child
I strayed away from its rude home in a
small field and entered a forest unob-
served. It was happy in a new sense
of freedom from control, happy in the oppor-
tunity of exploration and adventure; for this
child's spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for
thousands of years been trained to memorable
feats of discovery and conquest — victories in
battles whose critical moments were centuries,
whose victors' camps were cities of hewn stone.
From the cradle of its race it had conquered
its way through two continents and passing a
great sea had penetrated a third, there to be
born to war and dominion as a heritage.

The child was a boy aged about six years,
the son of a poor planter. In his younger
manhood the father had been a soldier, had
fought against naked savages and followed
the flag of his country into the capital of a
civilized race to the far South. In the peace-
ful life of a planter the warrior- fire survived;
once kindled, it is never extinguished. The
man loved military books and pictures and the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 47

boy had understood enough to make himself
a wooden sword, though even the eye of his
father would hardly have known it for what it
was. This weapon he now bore bravely, as
became the son of an heroic race, and pausing
now and again in the sunny space of the forest
assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures
of aggression and defense that he had been
taught by the engraver's art. Made reckless
by the ease with which he overcame invisible
foes attempting to stay his advance, he com-
mitted the common enough military error of
pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme,
until he found himself upon the margin of a
wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters
barred his direct advance against the flying
foe that had crossed with illogical ease. But
the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the
spirit of the race which had passed the great
sea burned unconquerable in that small breast
and would not be denied. Finding a place
where some bowlders in the bed of the stream
lay but a step or a leap apart, he made his way
across and fell again upon the rear-guard of
his imaginary foe, putting all to the sword.

Now that the battle had been won, pru-
dence required that he withdraw to his base
of operations. Alas; like many a mightier

48 THE COLLECTED WORKS

conqueror, and like one, the mightiest, he

could not , , , r

curb the lust for war,

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Advancing from the bank of the creek he
suddenly found himself confronted with a
new and more formidable enemy: in the path
that he was following, sat, bolt upright, with
ears erect and paws suspended before it, a
rabbit! With a startled cry the child turned
and fled, he knew not in what direction, call-
ing with inarticulate cries for his mother,
wepping, stumbling, his tender skin cruelly
torn by brambles, his little heart beating hard
with terror — breathless, blind with tears — lost
in the forest! Then, for more than an hour,
he wandered with erring feet through the
tangled undergrowth, till at last, overcome
by fatigue, he lay down in a narrow space be-
tween two rocks, within a few yards of the
stream and still grasping his toy sword, no
longer a weapon but a companion, sobbed
himself to sleep. The wood birds sang
merrily above his head ; the squirrels, whisk-
ing their bravery of tail, ran barking from
tree to tree, unconscious of the pity of it, and
somewhere far away was a strange, muffled
thunder, as if the partridges were drumming

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 49

in celebration of nature's victory over the son
of her immemorial enslavers. And back at
the little plantation, where white men and
black were hastily searching the fields and
hedges in alarm, a mother's heart was break-
ing for her missing child.

Hours passed, and then the little sleeper
rose to his feet. The chill of the evening was
in his limbs, the fear of the gloom in his heart.
But he had rested, and he no longer wept.
With some blind instinct which impelled to
action he struggled through the undergrowth
about him and came to a more open ground —
on his right the brook, to the left a gentle ac-
clivity studded with infrequent trees ; over all,
the gathering gloom of twilight. A thin,
ghostly mist rose along the water. It fright-
ened and repelled him; instead of recrossing,
in the direction whence he had come, he
turned his back upon it, and went forward
toward the dark inclosing wood. Suddenly
he saw before him a strange moving object
which he took to be some large animal — a
dog, a pig — he could not name it; perhaps it
was a bear. He had seen pictures of bears,
but knew of nothing to their discredit and had
vaguely wished to meet one. But something
in form or movement of this object — some-

50 THE COLLECTED WORKS

thing in the awkwardness of its approach —
told him that it was not a bear, and curiosity
was stayed by fear. He stood still and as it
came slowly on gained courage every moment,
for he saw that at least it had not the long,
menacing ears of the rabbit. Possibly his im-
pressionable mind was half conscious of some-
thing familiar in its shambling, awkward gait.
Before it had approached near enough to re-
solve his doubts he saw that it was followed
by another and another. To right and to left
were many more; the whole open space about
him was alive with them — all moving toward
the brook.

They were men. They crept upon their
hands and knees. They used their hands
only, dragging their legs. They used their
knees only, their arms hanging idle at
their sides. They strove to rise to their
feet, but fell prone in the attempt. They
did nothing naturally, and nothing alike,
save only to advance foot by foot in the
same direction. Singly, in pairs and in little
groups, they came on through the gloom, some
halting now and again while others crept
slowly past them, then resuming their move-
ment. They came by dozens and by hun-
dreds ; as far on either hand as one could see

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 51

in the deepening gloom they extended and the
black wood behind them appeared to be in-
exhaustible. The very ground seemed in
motion toward the creek. Occasionally one
who had paused did not again go on, but lay
motionless. He was dead. Some, pausing,
made strange gestures with their hands,
erected their arms and lowered them again,
clasped their heads; spread their palms up-
ward, as men are sometimes seen to do in pub-
lic prayer.

Not all of this did the child note; it is
what would have been noted by an elder ob-
server; he saw little but that these were men,
yet crept like babes. Being men, they were
not terrible, though unfamiliarly clad. He
moved among them freely, going from one to
another and peering into their faces with
childish curiosity. All their faces were
singularly white and many were streaked and
gouted with red. Something in this — some-
thing too, perhaps, in their grotesque attitudes
and movements — reminded him of the painted
clown whom he had seen last summer in the
circus, and he laughed as he watched them.
But on and ever on they crept, these maimed
and bleeding men, as heedless as he of the
dramatic contrast between his laughter and

52 THE COLLECTED WORKS

their own ghastly gravity. To him it was a
merry spectacle. He had seen his father's ne-
groes creep upon their hands and knees for his
amusement — had ridden them so, "making
believe " they were his horses. He now ap-
proached one of these crawling figures from
behind and with an agile movement mounted
it astride. The man sank upon his breast, re-
covered, flung the small boy fiercely to the
ground as an unbroken colt might have done,
then turned upon him a face that lacked a
lower jaw — from the upper teeth to the throat
was a great red gap fringed with hanging
shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The un-
natural prominence of nose, the absence of
chin, the fierce eyes, gave this man the appear-
ance of a great bird of prey crimsoned in
throat and breast by the blood of its quarry.
The man rose to his knees, the child to his feet.
The man shook his fist at the child ; the child,
terrified at last, ran to a tree near by, got upon
the farther side of it and took a more serious
view of the situation. And so the clumsy
multitude dragged itself slowly and painfully
along in hideous pantomime — moved forward
down the slope like a swarm of great black
beetles, with never a sound of going — in si-
lence profound, absolute.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 53

Instead of darkening, the haunted land-
scape began to brighten. Through the belt
of trees beyond the brook shone a strange red
light, the trunks and branches of the trees
making a black lacework against it. It struck
the creeping figures and gave them monstrous
shadows, which caricatured their movements
on the lit grass. It fell upon their faces,
touching their whiteness with a ruddy tinge,
accentuating the stains with which so many of
them were freaked and maculated. It
sparkled on buttons and bits of metal in their
clothing. Instinctively the child turned to-
ward the growing splendor and moved down
the slope with his horrible companions; in a
few moments had passed the foremost of the
throng — not much of a feat, considering his
advantages. He placed himself in the lead,
his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly
directed the march, conforming his pace to
theirs and occasionally turning as if to see that
his forces did not straggle. Surely such a
leader never before had such a following.

Scattered about upon the ground now
slowly narrowing by the encroachment of this
awful march to water, were certain articles to
which, in the leader's mind, were coupled no
significant associations : an occasional blanket,

54 THE COLLECTED WORKS

tightly rolled lengthwise, doubled and the
ends bound together with a string; a heavy
knapsack here, and there a broken rifle — such
things, in short, as are found in the rear of re-
treating troops, the "spoor" of men flying
from their hunters. Everywhere near the
creek, which here had a margin of lowland,
the earth was trodden into mud by the feet of
men and horses. An observer of better ex-
perience in the use of his eyes would have
noticed that these footprints pointed in both
directions; the ground had been twice passed
over — in advance and in retreat. A few hours
before, these desperate, stricken men, with
their more fortunate and now distant com-
rades, had penetrated the forest in thousands.
Their successive battalions, breaking into
swarms and re-forming in lines, had passed
the child on every side — had almost trodden
on him as he slept. The rustle and murmur
of their march had not awakened him. Al-
most within a stone's throw of where he lay
they had fought a battle; but all unheard by
him were the roar of the musketry, the shock
of the cannon, "the thunder of the captains
and the shouting." He had slept through it
all, grasping his little wooden sword with per-
haps a tighter clutch in unconscious sympathy

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 55

with his martial environment, but as heedless
of the grandeur of the struggle as the dead
who had died to make the glory.

The fire beyond the belt of woods on the
farther side of the creek, reflected to earth
from the canopy of its own smoke, was now
suffusing the whole landscape. It trans-
formed the sinuous line of mist to the vapor
of gold. The water gleamed with dashes of
red, and red, too, were many of the stones
protruding above the surface. But that was
blood; the less desperately wounded had
stained them in crossing. On them, too, the
child now crossed with eager steps; he was
going to the fire. As he stood upon the far-
ther bank he turned about to look at the com-
panions of his march. The advance was ar-
riving at the creek. The stronger had al-
ready drawn themselves to the brink and
plunged their faces into the flood. Three or
four who lay without motion appeared to have
no heads. At this the child's eyes expanded
with wonder; even his hospitable understand-
ing could not accept a phenomenon implying
such vitality as that. After slaking their
thirst these men had not had the strength to
back away from the water, nor to keep their
heads above it. They were drowned. In

56 THE COLLECTED WORKS

rear of these, the open spaces of the forest
showed the leader as many formless figures of
his grim command as at first; but not nearly
so many were in motion. He waved his cap
for their encouragement and smilingly
pointed with his weapon in the direction of
the guiding light — a pillar of fire to this
strange exodus.

Confident of the fidelity of his forces, he
now entered the belt of woods, passed through
it easily in the red illumination, climbed a
fence, ran across a field, turning now and
again to coquet with his responsive shadow,
and so approached the blazing ruin of a
dwelling. Desolation everywhere! In all
the wide glare not a living thing was visible.
He cared nothing for that; the spectacle
pleased, and he danced with glee in imitation
of the wavering flames. He ran about, col-
lecting fuel, but every object that he found
was too heavy for him to cast in from the dis-
tance to which the heat limited his approach.
In despair he flung in his sword — a surrender
to the superior forces of nature. His military
career was at an end.

Shifting his position, his eyes fell upon
some outbuildings which had an oddly fam-
iliar appearance, as if he had dreamed of
them. He stood considering them with won-

OP AMBROSE BIERCE 57

der, when suddenly the entire plantation, with
its inclosing forest, seemed to turn as if upon a
pivot. His little world swung half around;
the points of the compass were reversed. He
recognized the blazing building as his own
home !

For a moment he stood stupefied by the
power of the revelation, then ran with stum-
bling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin.
There, conspicuous in the light of the con-
flagration, lay the dead body of a woman —
the white face turned upward, the hands
thrown out and clutched full of grass, the
clothing deranged, the long dark hair in
tangles and full of clotted blood. The
greater part of the forehead was torn away,
and from the jagged hole the brain pro-
truded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass
of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson
bubbles — the work of a shell.

The child moved his little hands, making
wild, uncertain gestures. He uttered a series
of inarticulate and indescribable cries — some-
thing between the chattering of an ape and the
gobbling of a turkey — a startling, soulless, un-
holy sound, the language of a devil. The
child was a deaf mute.

Then he stood motionless, with quivering
lips, looking down upon the wreck.

58 THE COLLECTED WORKS
A SON OF THE GODS

A STUDY IN THE PRESENT TENSE

A BREEZY day and a sunny land-
scape. An open country to right and
left and forward; behind, a wood.
In the edge of this wood, facing the
open but not venturing into it, long lines of
troops, halted. The wood is alive with them,
and full of confused noises — the occasional
rattle of wheels as a battery of artillery goes
into position to cover the advance; the hum
and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound
of innumerable feet in the dry leaves that strew
the interspaces among the trees; hoarse com-
mands of officers. Detached groups of horse-
men are well in front — not altogether exposed
— many of them intently regarding the crest
of a hill a mile away in the direction of the in-
terrupted advance. For this powerful army,
moving in battle order through a forest, has
met with a formidable obstacle — the open
country. The crest of that gentle hill a mile
away has a sinister look; it says. Beware!
Along it runs a stone wall extending to left

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 59

and right a great distance. Behind the wall
is a hedge ; behind the hedge are seen the tops
of trees in rather straggling order. Among
the trees — what? It is necessary to know.

Yesterday, and for many days and nights
previously, we were fighting somewhere; al-
ways there was cannonading, with occasional
keen rattlings of musketry, mingled with
cheers, our own or the enemy's, we seldom
knew, attesting some temporary advantage.
This morning at daybreak the enemy was
gone. We have moved forward across his
earthworks, across which we have so often
vainly attempted to move before, through the
debris of his abandoned camps, among the
graves of his fallen, into the woods beyond.

How curiously we had regarded every-
thing! how odd it all had seemed! Nothing
had appeared quite familiar; the most com-
monplace objects — an old saddle, a splintered
wheel, a forgotten canteen — everything had
related something of the mysterious person-
ality of those strange men who had been kill-
ing us. The soldier never becomes wholly
familiar with the conception of his foes as
men like himself; he cannot divest himself of
the feeling that they are another order of be-
ings, differently conditioned, in an environ-

60 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ment not altogether of the earth. The smallest
vestiges of them rivet his attention and engage
his interest. He thinks of them as inaccess-
ible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of
them, they appear farther away, and therefore
larger, than they really are — like objects in a
fog. He is somewhat in awe of them.

From the edge of the wood leading up the
acclivity are the tracks of horses and wheels —
the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is
beaten down by the feet of infantry. Clearly
they have passed this way in thousands ; they
have not withdrawn by the country roads.
This is significant — it is the difference be-
tween retiring and retreating.

That group of horsemen is our commander,
his staff and escort. He is facing the distant
crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes
with both hands, his elbows needlessly elev-
ated. It is a fashion; it seems to dignify the
act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he
lowers the glass and says a few words to those
about him. Two or three aides detach them-
selves from the group and canter away into
the woods, along the lines in each direction.
We did not hear his words, but we know
them : " Tell General X. to send forward the
skirmish line." Those of us who have been

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 61

out of place resume our positions; the men
resting at ease straighten themselves and the
ranks are re-formed without a command.
Some of us staff officers dismount and look
at our saddle girths; those already on the
ground remount.

Galloping rapidly along in the edge of the
open ground comes a young officer on a snow-
white horse. His saddle blanket is scarlet.
What a fool ! No one who has ever been in
action but remembers how naturally every
rifle turns toward the man on a white horse;
no one but has observed how a bit of red en-
rages the bull of battle. That such colors are
fashionable in military life must be accepted
as the most astonishing of all the phenomena
of human vanity. They would seem to have
been devised to increase the death-rate.

This young officer is in full uniform, as if
on parade. He is all agleam with bullion — a
blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War.
A wave of derisive laughter runs abreast of
him all along the line. But how handsome he
is! — with what careless grace he sits his horse!

He reins up within a respectful distance of
the corps commander and salutes. The old
soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows
him. A brief colloquy between them is going

62 THE COLLECTED WORKS

on; the young man seems to be preferring
some request which the elder one is indisposed
to grant. Let us ride a little nearer. Ah ! too
late — it is ended. The young officer salutes
again, wheels his horse, and rides straight to-
ward the crest of the hill!

A thin line of skirmishers, the men de-
ployed at six paces or so apart, now pushes
from the wood into the open. The com-
mander speaks to his bugler, who claps his
instrument to his lips. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!
The skirmishers halt in their tracks.

Meantime the young horseman has ad-
vanced a hundred yards. He is riding at a
walk, straight up the long slope, with never
a turn of the head. How glorious! Gods!
what would we not give to be in his place —
with his soul! He does not draw his sabre;
his right hand hangs easily at his side. The
breeze catches the plume in his hat and flut-
ters it smartly. The sunshine rests upon his
shoulder-straps, lovingly, like a visible bene-
diction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand
pairs of eyes are fixed upon him with an in-
tensity that he can hardly fail to feel; ten
thousand hearts keep quick time to the inaud-
ible hoof-beats of his snowy steed. He is
not alone — he draws all souls after him. But

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 63

we remember that we laughed! On and on,
straight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides.
Not a look backward. O, if he would but
turn — if he could but see the love, the adora-
tion, the atonement!

Not a word is spoken ; the populous depths
of the forest still murmur with their unseen
and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe
is silence. The burly commander is an eques-
trian statue of himself. The mounted staff
officers, their field glasses up, are motionless
all. The line of battle in the edge of the
wood stands at a new kind of " attention," each
man in the attitude in which he was caught
by the consciousness of what is going on. All
these hardened and impenitent man-killers, to
whom death in its awfulest forms is a fact
familiar to their every-day observation; who
sleep on hills trembling with the thunder of
great guns, dine in the midst of streaming
missiles, and play at cards among the dead
faces of their dearest friends — all are watch-
ing with suspended breath and beating hearts
the outcome of an act involving the life of one
man. Such is the magnetism of courage and
devotion.

If now you should turn your head you
would see a simultaneous movement among

64 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the spectators — a start, as if they had received
an electric shock — and looking forward again
to the now distant horseman you would see
that he has in that instant altered his direction
and is riding at an angle to his former course.
The spectators suppose the sudden deflection
to be caused by a shot, perhaps a wound ; but
take this field-glass and you will observe that
he is riding toward a break in the wall and
hedge. He means, if not killed, to ride
through and overlook the country beyond.

You are not to forget the nature of this
man's act; it is not permitted to you to think
of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the
other hand, a needless sacrifice of self. If the
enemy has not retreated he is in force on that
ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing
less than a line-of-battle ; there is no need
of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to give warn-
ing of our approach; our attacking lines will
be visible, conspicuous, exposed to an artillery
fire that will shave the ground the moment
they break from cover, and for half the dis-
tance to a sheet of rifle bullets in which no-
thing can live. In short, if the enemy is there,
it would be madness to attack him in front; he
must be manoeuvred out by the immemorial
plan of threatening his line of communication,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 65

as necessary to his existence as to the diver at
the bottom of the sea his air tube. But how-
ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but
one way, — somebody must go and see. The
natural and customary thing to do is to send
forward a line of skirmishers. But in this
case they will answer in the affirmative with
all their lives ; the enemy, crouching in double
ranks behind the stone wall and in cover of
the hedge, will wait until it is possible to count
each assailant's teeth. At the first volley a
half of the questioning line will fall, the other
half before it can accomplish the predestined
retreat. What a price to pay for gratified
curiosity! At what a dear rate an army must
sometimes purchase knowledge! "Let me
pay all," says this gallant man — this military
Christ!

There is no hope except the hope against
hope that the crest is clear. True, he might
prefer capture to death. So long as he ad-
vances, the line will not fire — why should it?
He can safely ride into the hostile ranks and
become a prisoner of war. But this would
defeat his object. It would not answer our
question; it is necessary either that he return
unharmed or be shot to death before our eyes.
Only so shall we know how to act. If cap-

66 THE COLLECTED WORKS

tured — why, that might have been done by a
half-dozen stragglers.

Now begins an extraordinary contest of in-
tellect between a man and an army. Our
horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of
the crest, suddenly wheels to the left and gal-
lops in a direction parallel to it. He has
caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all.
Some slight advantage of ground has enabled
him to overlook a part of the line. If he were
here he could tell us in words. But that is
now hopeless; he must make the best use of
the few minutes of life remaining to him, by
compelling the enemy himself to tell us as
much and as plainly as possible — which, nat-
urally, that discreet power is reluctant to do.
Not a rifleman in those crouching ranks, not
a cannoneer at those masked and shotted guns,
but knows the needs of the situation, the im-
perative duty of forbearance. Besides, there
has been time enough to forbid them all to
fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him
and be no great disclosure. But firing is in-
fectious— and see how rapidly he moves, with
never a pause except as he whirls his horse
about to take a new direction, never directly
backward toward us, never directly forward
toward his executioners. All this is visible

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 67

through the glass; it seems occurring within
pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose
presence, whose thoughts, whose motives we
infer. To the unaided eye there is nothing
but a black figure on a white horse, tracing
slow zigzags against the slope of a distant hill
— so slowly they seem almost to creep.

Now — the glass again — he has tired of his
failure, or sees his error, or has gone mad;
he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as
if to take it at a leap, hedge and all! One
moment only and he wheels right about and
is speeding like the wind straight down the
slope — toward his friends, toward his death 1
Instantly the wall is topped with a fierce roll
of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards
to right and left. This is as instantly dissip-
ated by the wind, and before the rattle of
the rifles reaches us he is down. No, he re-
covers his seat; he has but pulled his horse
upon its haunches. They are up and away!
A tremendous cheer bursts from our ranks,
relieving the insupportable tension of our feel-
ings. And the horse and its rider? Yes,
they are up and away. Away, indeed — they
are making directly to our left, parallel to
the now steadily blazing and smoking wall.
The rattle of the musketry is continuous, and

68 THE COLLECTED WORKS

every bullet's target is that courageous
heart.

Suddenly a great bank of white smoke
pushes upward from behind the wall. An-
other and another — a dozen roll up before
the thunder of the explosions and the humm-
ing of the missiles reach our ears and the
missiles themselves come bounding through
clouds of dust into our covert, knocking over
here and there a man and causing a temporary
distraction, a passing thought of self.

The dust drifts away. Incredible! — that
enchanted horse and rider have passed a
ravine and are climbing another slope to un-
veil another conspiracy of silence, to thwart
the will of another armed host. Another mo-
ment and that crest too is in eruption. The
horse rears and strikes the air with its fore-
feet. They are down at last. But look again
— the man has detached himself from the
dead animal. He stands erect, motionless,
holding his sabre in his right hand straight
above his head. His face is toward us. Now
he lowers his hand to a level with his face
and moves it outward, the blade of the sabre
describing a downward curve. It is a sign to
us, to the world, to posterity. It is a hero's
salute to death and history.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 69

Again the spell is broken; our men attempt
to cheer; they are choking with emotion; they
utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch
their weapons and press tumultuously forward
into the open. The skirmishers, without or-
ders, against orders, are going forward at a
keen run, like hounds unleashed. Our cannon
speak and the enemy's now open in full
chorus ; to right and left as far as we can see,
the distant crest, seeming now so near, erects
its towers of cloud and the great shot pitch
roaring down among our moving masses.
Flag after flag of ours emerges from the
wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching
the sunlight on its burnished arms. The rear
battalions alone are in obedience; they pre-
serve their proper distance from the insurgent
front.

The commander has not moved. He now
removes his field-glass from his eyes and
glances to the right and left. He sees the
human current flowing on either side of him
and his huddled escort, like tide waves parted
by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face;
he is thinking. Again he directs his eyes for-
ward; they slowly traverse that malign and
awful crest. He addresses a calm word to his
bugler. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la! The injunc-

70 THE COLLECTED WORKS

tion has an imperiousness which enforces it.
It is repeated by all the bugles of all the sub-
ordinate commanders; the sharp metallic
notes assert themselves above the hum of the
advance and penetrate the sound of the
cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colors
move slowly back; the lines face about and
sullenly follow, bearing their wounded; the
skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.

Ah, those many, many needless dead! That
great soul whose beautiful body is lying over
yonder, so conspicuous against the sere hill-
side— could it not have been spared the bitter
consciousness of a vain devotion? Would one
exception have marred too much the pitiless
perfection of the divine, eternal plan?

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 71

ONE OF THE MISSING

JEROME SEARING, a private soldier
of General Sherman's army, then con-
fronting the enemy at and about Kenne-
saw Mountain, Georgia, turned his back
upon a small group of officers with whom he
had been talking in low tones, stepped across
a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in
a forest. None of the men in line behind the
works had said a word to him, nor had he so
much as nodded to them in passing, but all
who saw understood that this brave man had
been intrusted with some perilous duty.
Jerome Searing, though a private, did not
serve in the ranks ; he was detailed for service
at division headquarters, being borne upon the
rolls as an orderly. "Orderly" is a word
covering a multitude of duties. An orderly
may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer's serv-
ant— anything. He may perform services for
which no provision is made in orders and
army regulations. Their nature may depend
upon his aptitude, upon favor, upon accident.
Private Searing, an incomparable marksman,
young, hardy, intelligent and insensible to

72 THE COLLECTED WORKS

fear, was a scout. The general commanding
his division was not content to obey orders
blindly without knowing what was in his
front, even when his command was not on de-
tached service, but formed a fraction of the
line of the army; nor was he satisfied to re-
ceive his knowledge of his vis-a-vis through
the customary channels; he wanted to know
more than he was apprised of by the corps
commander and the collisions of pickets and
skirmishers. Hence Jerome Searing, with his
extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp
eyes, and truthful tongue. On this occasion
his instructions were simple : to get as near the
enemy's lines as possible and learn all that he
could.

In a few moments he had arrived at the
picket-line, the men on duty there lying in
groups of two and four behind little banks of
earth scooped out of the slight depression in
which they lay, their rifles protruding from
the green boughs with which they had masked
their small defenses. The forest extended
without a break toward the front, so solemn
and silent that only by an effort of the im-
agination could it be conceived as populous
with armed men, alert and vigilant — a forest
formidable with possibilities of battle. Paus-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 73

ing a moment in one of these rifle-pits to ap-
prise the men of his intention Searing crept
stealthily forward on his hands and knees and
was soon lost to view in a dense thicket of un-
derbrush.

" That is the last of him," said one of the
men; " I wish I had his rifle; those fellows
will hurt some of us with it."

Searing crept on, taking advantage of every
accident of ground and growth to give him-
self better cover. His eyes penetrated every-
where, his ears took note of every sound. He
stilled his breathing, and at the cracking of a
twig beneath his knee stopped his progress
and hugged the earth. It was slow work, but
not tedious ; the danger made it exciting, but
by no physical signs was the excitement mani-
fest. His pulse was as regular, his nerves
were as steady as if he were trying to trap a
sparrow.

" It seems a long time," he thought, " but
I cannot have come very far; I am still alive."

He smiled at his own method of estimating
distance, and crept forward. A moment later
he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth
and lay motionless, minute after minute.
Through a narrow opening in the bushes he
had caught sight of a small mound of yellow

74 THE COLLECTED WORKS

clay — one of the enemy's rifle-pits. After
some little time he cautiously raised his head,
inch by inch, then his body upon his hands,
spread out on each side of him, all the while
intently regarding the hillock of clay. In an-
other moment he was upon his feet, rifle in
hand, striding rapidly forward with little at-
tempt at concealment. He had rightly in-
terpreted the signs, whatever they were; the
enemy was gone.

To assure himself beyond a doubt before
going back to report upon so important a mat-
ter, Searing pushed forward across the line of
abandoned pits, running from cover to cover
in the more open forest, his eyes vigilant to
discover possible stragglers. He came to the
edge of a plantation — one of those forlorn,
deserted homesteads of the last years of the
war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with
broken fences and desolate with vacant build-
ings having blank apertures in place of doors
and windows. After a keen reconnoissance
from the safe seclusion of a clump of young
pines Searing ran lightly across a field and
through an orchard to a small structure which
stood apart from the other farm buildings, on
a slight elevation. This he thought would
enable him to overlook a large scope of

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 75

country in the direction that he supposed the
enemy to have taken in withdrawing. This
building, which had originally consisted of a
single room elevated upon four posts about
ten feet high, was now little more than a roof;
the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks
loosely piled on the ground below or resting
on end at various angles, not wholly torn from
their fastenings above. The supporting posts
were themselves no longer vertical. It looked
as if the whole edifice would go down at the
touch of a finger.

Concealing himself in the debris of joists
and flooring Searing looked across the open
ground between his point of view and a spur
of Kennesaw Mountain, a half-mile away. A
road leading up and across this spur was
crowded with troops — the rear-guard of the
retiring enemy, their gun-barrels gleaming in
the morning sunlight.

Searing had now learned all that he could
hope to know. It was his duty to return to
his own command with all possible speed and
report his discovery. But the gray column of
Confederates toiling up the mountain road
was singularly tempting. His rifle — an ordin-
ary "Springfield," but fitted with a globe
sight and hair-trigger — ^would easily send its

76 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ounce and a quarter of lead hissing into their
midst. That would probably not affect the
duration and result of the war, but it is the
business of a soldier to kill. It is also his
habit if he is a good soldier. Searing cocked
his rifle and " set" the trigger.

But it was decreed from the beginning of
time that Private Searing was not to murder
anybody that bright summer morning, nor
was the Confederate retreat to be announced
by him. For countless ages events had been
so matching themselves together in that won-
drous mosaic to some parts of which, dimly
discernible, we give the name of history, that
the acts which he had in will would have
marred the harmony of the pattern. Some
twenty- five years previously the Power
charged with the execution of the work ac-
cording to the design had provided against
that mischance by causing the birth of a cer-
tain male child in a little village at the foot
of the Carpathian Mountains, had carefully
reared it, supervised its education, directed its
desires into a military channel, and in due
time made it an officer of artillery. By the
concurrence of an infinite number of favoring
influences and their preponderance over an
infinite number of opposing ones, this officer

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 77

of artillery had been made to commit a breach
of discipline and flee from his native country
to avoid punishment. He had been directed
to New Orleans (instead of New York),
where a recruiting officer awaited him on the
wharf. He was enlisted and promoted, and
things were so ordered that he now com-
manded a Confederate battery some two miles
along the line from where Jerome Searing, the
Federal scout, stood cocking his rifle. No-
thing had been neglected — at every step in the
progress of both these men's lives, and in the
lives of their contemporaries and ancestors,
and in the lives of the contemporaries of their
ancestors, the right thing had been done to
bring about the desired result. Had anything
in all this vast concatenation been overlooked
Private Searing might have fired on the
retreating Confederates that morning, and
would perhaps have missed. As it fell out, a
Confederate captain of artillery, having no-
thing better to do while awaiting his turn to
pull out and be off, amused himself by sight-
ing a field-piece obliquely to his right at what
he mistook for some Federal officers on the
crest of a hill, and discharged it. The shot
flew high of its mark.

As Jerome Searing drew back the hammer

78 THE COLLECTED WORKS

of his rifle and with his eyes upon the distant
Confederates considered where he could plant
his shot with the best hope of making a widow
or an orphan or a childless mother, — perhaps
all three, for Private Searing, although he
had repeatedly refused promotion, was not
without a certain kind of ambition, — he heard
a rushing sound in the air, like that made by
the wings of a great bird swooping down upon
its prey. More quickly than he could appre-
hend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse
and horrible roar, as the missile that made it
sprang at him out of the sky, striking with a
deafening impact one of the posts supporting
the confusion of timbers above him, smash-
ing it into matchwood, and bringing down the
crazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of
blinding dust!

When Jerome Searing recovered conscious-
ness he did not at once understand what had
occurred. It was, indeed, some time before
he opened his eyes. For a while he believed
that he had died and been buried, and he tried
to recall some portions of the burial service.
He thought that his wife was kneeling upon
his grave, adding her weight to that of the
earth upon his breast. The two of them,
widow and earth, had crushed his cofiin. Un-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 79

less the children should persuade her to go
home he would not much longer be able to
breathe. He felt a sense of wrong. " I cannot
speak to her," he thought; " the dead have no
voice ; and if I open my eyes I shall get them
full of earth."

He opened his eyes. A great expanse of
blue sky, rising from a fringe of the tops of
trees. In the foreground, shutting out some
of the trees, a high, dun mound, angular in
outline and crossed by an intricate, pattern-
less system of straight lines ; the whole an im-
measurable distance away — a distance so in-
conceivably great that it fatigued him, and he
closed his eyes. The moment that he did so he
was conscious of an insufferable light. A
sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic
thunder of a distant sea breaking in successive
waves upon the beach, and out of this noise,
seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from
beyond it, and intermingled with its cease-
less undertone, came the articulate words:
" Jerome Searing, you are caught like a rat in
a trap — in a trap, trap, trap."

Suddenly there fell a great silence, a black
darkness, an infinite tranquillity, and Jerome
Searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood,
and well assured of the trap that he was in,

80 THE COLLECTED WORKS

remembering all and nowise alarmed, again
opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the
strength of his enemy, to plan his defense.

He was caught in a reclining posture, his
back firmly supported by a solid beam. An-
other lay across his breast, but he had been
able to shrink a little away from it so that it
no longer oppressed him, though it was im-
movable. A brace joining it at an angle had
wedged him against a pile of boards on his
left, fastening the arm on that side. His legs,
slightly parted and straight along the ground,
were covered upward to the knees with a mass
of debris which towered above his narrow
horizon. His head was as rigidly fixed as in
a vise; he could move his eyes, his chin — no
more. Only his right arm was partly free.
" You must help us out of this," he said to it.
But he could not get it from under the heavy
timber athwart his chest, nor move it outward
more than six inches at the elbow.

Searing was not seriously injured, nor did
he sufifer pain. A smart rap on the head
from a flying fragment of the splintered post,
incurred simultaneously with the frightfully
sudden shock to the nervous system, had
momentarily dazed him. His term of un-
consciousness, including the period of recov-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 81

ery, during which he had had the strange
fancies, had probably not exceeded a few sec-
onds, for the dust of the wreck had not wholly
cleared away as he began an intelligent survey
of the situation.

With his partly free right hand he now
tried to get hold of the beam that lay across,
but not quite against, his breast. In no way
could he do so. He was unable to depress the
shoulder so as to push the elbow beyond that
edge of the timber which was nearest his
knees; failing in that, he could not raise the
forearm and hand to grasp the beam. The
brace that made an angle with it downward
and backward prevented him from doing any-
thing in that direction, and between it and his
body the space was not half so wide as the
length of his forearm. Obviously he could
not get his hand under the beam nor over it;
the hand could not, in fact, touch it at all.
Having demonstrated his inability, he de-
sisted, and began to think whether he could
reach any of the debris piled upon his legs.

In surveying the mass with a view to de-
termining that point, his attention was ar-
rested by what seemed to be a ring of shining
metal immediately in front of his eyes. It
appeared to him at first to surround some

82 THE COLLECTED WORKS

perfectly black substance, and it was some-
what more than a half-inch in diameter. It
suddenly occurred to his mind that the black-
ness was simply shadow and that the ring was
in fact the muzzle of his rifle protruding from
the pile of debris. He was not long in satisfy-
ing himself that this was so — if it was a satis-
faction. By closing either eye he could look
a little way along the barrel — to the point
where it was hidden by the rubbish that held
it. He could see the one side, with the corre-
sponding eye, at apparently the same angle as
the other side with the other eye. Looking
with the right eye, the weapon seemed to be
directed at a point to the left of his head, and
vice versa. He was unable to see the upper
surface of the barrel, but could see the under
surface of the stock at a slight angle. The
piece was, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of
his forehead.

In the perception of this circumstance, in
the recollection that just previously to the
mischance of which this uncomfortable situ-
ation was the result he had cocked the rifle
and set the trigger so that a touch would dis-
charge it, Private Searing was affected with a
feeling of uneasiness. But that was as far as
possible from fear ; he was a brave man, some-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 83

what familiar with the aspect of rifles from
that point of view, and of cannon too. And
now he recalled, with something like amuse-
ment, an incident of his experience at the
storming of Missionary Ridge, where, walk-
ing up to one of the enemy's embrasures from
which he had seen a heavy gun throw charge
after charge of grape among the assailants he
had thought for a moment that the piece had
been withdrawn ; he could see nothing in the
opening but a brazen circle. What that was
he had understood just in time to step aside as
it pitched another peck of iron down that
swarming slope. To face firearms is one of
the commonest incidents in a soldier's life —
firearms, too, with malevolent eyes blazing be-
hind them. That is what a soldier is for.
Still, Private Searing did not altogether relish
the situation, and turned away his eyes.

After groping, aimless, with his right hand
for a time he made an ineffectual attempt to
release his left. Then he tried to disengage
his head, the fixity of which was the more an-
noying from his ignorance of what held it.
Next he tried to free his feet, but while exert-
ing the powerful muscles of his legs for that
purpose it occurred to him that a disturbance
of the rubbish which held them might dis-

84 THE COLLECTED WORKS

charge the rifle; how it could have endured
what had already befallen it he could not
understand, although memory assisted him
with several instances in point. One in particu-
lar he recalled, in which in a moment of mental
abstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten
out another gentleman's brains, observing
afterward that the weapon which he had been
diligently swinging by the muzzle was loaded,
capped, and at full cock — knowledge of
which circumstance would doubtless have
cheered his antagonist to longer endurance.
He had always smiled in recalling that
blunder of his "green and salad days" as a
soldier, but now he did not smile. He turned
his eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and
for a moment fancied that it had moved; it
seemed somewhat nearer.

Again he looked away. The tops of the
distant trees beyond the bounds of the plant-
ation interested him: he had not before ob-
served how light and feathery they were, nor
how darkly blue the sky was, even among
their branches, where they somewhat paled it
with their green; above him it appeared al-
most black. " It will be uncomfortably hot
here," he thought, " as the day advances. I
wonder which way I am looking."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 85

Judging by such shadows as he could see,
he decided that his face was due north; he
would at least not have the sun in his eyes,
and north — ^well, that was toward his wife and
children.

"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have
they to do with it?"

He closed his eyes. " As I can't get out I
may as well go to sleep. The rebels are gone
and some of our fellows are sure to stray out
here foraging. They'll find me."

But he did not sleep. Gradually he be-
came sensible of a pain in his forehead — a
dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but
growing more and more uncomfortable. He
opened his eyes and it was gone — closed them
and it returned. "The devil!" he said,
irrelevantly, and stared again at the sky. He
heard the singing of birds, the strange metall-
ic note of the meadow lark, suggesting the
clash of vibrant blades. He fell into pleasant
memories of his childhood, played again with
his brother and sister, raced across the fields,
shouting to alarm the sedentary larks, entered
the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps
followed the faint path to Ghost Rock, stand-
ing at last with audible heart-throbs before
the Dead Man's Cave and seeking to penetrate

86 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Its awful mystery. For the first time he ob-
served that the opening of the haunted cavern
was encircled by a ring of metal. Then all
else vanished and left him gazing into the bar-
rel of his rifle as before. But whereas before
it had seemed nearer, it now seemed an incon-
ceivable distance away, and all the more sin-
ister for that. He cried out and, startled by
something in his own voice — the note of fear
— lied to himself in denial : " If I don't sing
out I may stay here till I die."

He now made no further attempt to evade
the menacing stare of the gun barrel. If he
turned away his eyes an instant it was to look
for assistance (although he could not see the
ground on either side the ruin), and he per-
mitted them to return, obedient to the imper-
ative fascination. If he closed them it was
from weariness, and instantly the poignant
pain in his forehead — the prophecy and
menace of the bullet — forced him to reopen
them.

The tension of nerve and brain was too
severe ; nature came to his relief with intervals
of unconsciousness. Reviving from one of
these he became sensible of a sharp, smarting
pain in his right hand, and when he worked
his fingers together, or rubbed his palm with

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 87

them, he could feel that they were wet and
slippery. He could not see the hand, but he
knew the sensation ; it was running blood. In
his delirium he had beaten it against the
jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched
it full of splinters. He resolved that he would
meet his fate more manly. He was a plain,
common soldier, had no religion and not
much philosophy; he could not die like a
hero, with great and wise last words, even if
there had been some one to hear them, but he
could die " game," and he would. But if he
could only know when to expect the shot!

Some rats which had probably inhabited
the shed came sneaking and scampering about.
One of them mounted the pile of debris that
held the rifle; another followed and another.
Searing regarded them at first with indiffer-
ence, then with friendly interest; then, as the
thought flashed into his bewildered mind that
they might touch the trigger of his rifle, he
cursed them and ordered them to go away.
" It is no business of yours," he cried.

The creatures went away; they would re-
turn later, attack his face, gnaw away his nose,
cut his throat — he knew that, but he hoped by
that time to be dead.

Nothing could now unfix his gaze from the

88 THE COLLECTED WORKS

little ring of metal with its black interior. The
pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant.
He felt it gradually penetrating the brain
more and more deeply, until at last its pro-
gress was arrested by the wood at the back of
his head. It grew momentarily more insuf-
ferable: he began wantonly beating his lac-
erated hand against the splinters again to
counteract that horrible ache. It seemed to
throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each
pulsation sharper than the preceding, and
sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt the
fatal bullet. No thoughts of home, of wife
and children, of country, of glory. The whole
record of memory was effaced. The world
had passed away — not a vestige remained.
Here in this confusion of timbers and boards
is the sole universe. Here is immortality in
time — each pain an everlasting life. The
throbs tick off eternities.

Jerome Searing, the man of courage, the
formidable enemy, the strong, resolute war-
rior, was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was
fallen; his eyes protruded; he trembled in
every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire
body; he screamed with fear. He was not in-
sane— he was terrified.

In groping about with his torn and bleeding

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 89

hand he seized at last a strip of board, and,
pulling, felt it give way. It lay parallel with
his body, and by bending his elbow as much
as the contracted space would permit, he
could draw it a few inches at a time. Finally
it was altogether loosened from the wreckage
covering his legs ; he could lift it clear of the
ground its whole length. A great hope came
into his mind : perhaps he could work it up-
ward, that is to say backward, far enough to
lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that
were too tightly wedged, so place the strip of
board as to deflect the bullet. With this object
he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly
daring to breathe lest that act somehow defeat
his intent, and more than ever unable to re-
move his eyes from the rifle, which might
perhaps now hasten to improve its waning
opportunity. Something at least had been
gained: in the occupation of his mind in this
attempt at self-defense he was less sensible of
the pain in his head and had ceased to wince.
But he was still dreadfully frightened and his
teeth rattled like castanets.

The strip of board ceased to move to the
suasion of his hand. He tugged at it with all
his strength, changed the direction of its
length all he could, but it had met some ex-

00 THE COLLECTED WORKS

tended obstruction behind him and the end
in front was still too far away to clear the pile
of debris and reach the muzzle of the gun. It
extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger
iguard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he
could imperfectly see with his right eye. He
tried to break the strip with his hand, but had
no leverage. In his defeat, all his terror re-
turned, augmented tenfold. The black
aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a
sharper and more imminent death in punish-
ment of his rebellion. The track of the bullet
through his head ached with an intenser
anguish. He began to tremble again.

Suddenly he became composed. His
tremor subsided. He clenched his teeth and
drew down his eyebrows. He had not ex-
hausted his means of defense; a new design
had shaped itself in his mind — another plan of
battle. Raising the front end of the strip of
board, he carefully pushed it forward through
the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it
pressed against the trigger guard. Then he
moved the end slowly outward until he could
feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his
eyes, thrust it against the trigger with all his
strength! There was no explosion; the rifle
had been discharged as it dropped from his

OP AMBROSE BIERCE 91

hand when the building fell. But it did its
work.

Lieutenant Adrian Searing, in command of
the picket- guard on that part of the line
through which his brother Jerome had passed
on his mission, sat with attentive ears in his
breastwork behind the line. Not the faintest
sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the
barking of a squirrel, the noise of the wind
among the pines — all were anxiously noted
by his overstrained sense. Suddenly, directly
in front of his line, he heard a faint, confused
rumble, like the clatter of a falling building
translated by distance. The lieutenant me-
chanically looked at his watch. Six o'clock
and eighteen minutes. At the same moment
an officer approached him on foot fromthe
rear and saluted.

" Lieutenant," said the officer, " the colonel
directs you to move forward your line and
feel the enemy if you find him. If not, con-
tinue the advance until directed to halt.
There is reason to think that the enemy has
retreated."

The lieutenant nodded and said nothing;
the other officer retired. In a moment the
men, apprised of their duty by the non-com-

92 THE COLLECTED WORKS

missioned officers in low tones, had deployed
from their rifle-pits and were moving forward
in skirmishing order, with set teeth and beat-
ing hearts.

This line of skirmishers sweeps across the
plantation toward the mountain. They pass
on both sides of the wrecked building, observ-
ing nothing. At a short distance in their rear
their commander comes. He casts his eyes
curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body
half buried in boards and timbers. It is so
covered with dust that its clothing is Con-
federate gray. Its face is yellowish white;
the cheeks are fallen in, the temples sunken,
too, with sharp ridges about them, making the
forehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip,
slightly lifted, shows the white teeth, rigidly
clenched. The hair is heavy with moisture,
the face as wet as the dewy grass all about.
From his point of view the officer does not
observe the rifle; the man was apparently
killed by the fall of the building.

"Dead a week," said the officer curtly,
moving on and absently pulling out his watch
as if to verify his estimate of time. Six o'clock
and forty minutes.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 93

KILLED AT RESACA

THE best soldier of our staff was
Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of
the two aides-de-camp. I don't re-
member where the general picked
him up; from some Ohio regiment, I think;
none of us had previously known him, and it
would have been strange if we had, for no two
of us came from the same State, nor even from
adjoining States. The'general seemed to think
that a position on his staff was a distinction
that should be so judiciously conferred as not
to beget any sectional jealousies and imperil
the integrity of that part of the country which
was still an integer. He would not even
choose officers from his own command, but by
some jugglery at department headquarters ob-
tained them from other brigades. Under such
circumstances, a man's services had to be very
distinguished indeed to be heard of by his
family and the friends of his youth ; and " the
speaking trump of fame " was a trifle hoarse
from loquacity, anyhow.

Lieutenant Brayle was more than six feet
in height and of splendid proportions, with

94 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men
so gifted usually find associated with a high
order of courage. As he was commonly in
full uniform, especially in action, when most
officers are content to be less flamboyantly
attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous
figure. As to the rest, he had a gentleman's
manners, a scholar's head, and a lion's heart.
His age was about thirty.

We all soon came to like Brayle as much
as we admired him, and it was with sincere
concern that in the engagement at Stone's
River — our first action after he joined us —
we observed that he had one most objection-
able and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of
his courage. During all the vicissitudes and
mutations of that hideous encounter, whether
our troops were fighting in the open cotton
fields, in the cedar thickets, or behind the
railway embankment, he did not once take
cover, except when sternly commanded to do
so by the general, who usually had other
things to think of than the lives of his staff
officers — or those of his men, for that matter.

In every later engagement while Brayle was
with us it was the same way. He would sit
his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm
of bullets and grape, in the most exposed

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 95

places — wherever, in fact, duty, requiring him
to go, permitted him to remain — when, with-
out trouble and with distinct advantage to his
reputation for common sense, he might have
been in such security as is possible on a battle-
field in the brief intervals of personal inac-
tion.

On foot, from necessity or in deference to
his dismounted commander or associates, his
conduct was the same. He would stand like
a rock in the open when officers and men alike
had taken to cover; while men older in service
and years, higher in rank and of unquestion-
able intrepidity, were loyally preserving
behind the crest of a hill lives infinitely pre-
cious to their country, this fellow would stand,
equally idle, on the ridge, facing in the direc-
tion of the sharpest fire.

When battles are going on in open ground
it frequently occurs that the opposing lines,
confronting each other within a stone's throw
for hours, hug the earth as closely as if they
loved it. The line officers in their proper
places flatten themselves no less, and the field
officers, their horses all killed or sent to the
rear, crouch beneath the infernal canopy of
hissing lead and screaming iron without a
thought of personal dignity.

96 THE COLLECTED WORKS

In such circumstances the life of a staff
officer of a brigade is distinctly " not a happy
one," mainly because of its precarious tenure
and the unnerving alternations of emotion to
which he is exposed. From a position of that
comparative security from which a civilian
would ascribe his escape to a *^ miracle," he
may be despatched with an order to some com-
mander of a prone regiment in the front line
— a person for the moment inconspicuous and
not always easy to find without a deal of
search among men somewhat preoccupied,
and in a din in which question and answer
alike must be imparted in the sign language.
It is customary in such cases to duck the head
and scuttle away on a keen run, an object of
lively interest to some thousands of admiring
marksmen. In returning — well, it is not cus-
tomary to return.

Brayle's practice was different. He would
consign his horse to the care of an orderly, —
he loved his horse, — and walk quietly away
on his perilous errand with never a stoop of
the back, his splendid figure, accentuated by
his uniform, holding the eye with a strange
fascination. We watched him with suspended
breath, our hearts in our mouths. On one
occasion of this kind, indeed, one of our num-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 97

ber, an impetuous stammerer, was so possessed
by his emotion that he shouted at me :

" I'll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they
d-drop him b-b-before he g-gets to that d-d-
ditch I"

I did not accept the brutal wager; I
thought they would.

Let me do justice to a brave man's memory;
in all these needless exposures of life there was
no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.
In the few instances when some of us had
ventured to remonstrate, Brayle had smiled
pleasantly and made some light reply, which,
however, had not encouraged a further pur-
suit of the subject. Once he said :

" Captain, if ever I come to grief by for-
getting your advice, I hope my last moments
will be cheered by the sound of your beloved
voice breathing into my ear the blessed words,
* I told you so.' "

We laughed at the captain — just why we
could probably not have explained — and that
afternoon when he was shot to rags from an
ambuscade Brayle remained by the body for
some time, adjusting the limbs with needless
care — there in the middle of a road swept by
gusts of grape and canister! It is easy to con-
demn this kind of thing, and not very difficult

98 THE COLLECTED WORKS

to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible
not to respect, and Brayle was liked none the
less for the weakness which had so heroic an
expression. We wished he were not a fool,
but he went on that way to the end, sometimes
hard hit, but always returning to duty about
as good as new.

Of course, it came at last; he who ignores
the law of probabilities challenges an adver-
sary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca,
in Georgia, during the movement that resulted
in the taking of Atlanta. In front of our
brigade the enemy's line of earthworks ran
through open fields along a slight crest. At
each end of this open ground we were close up
to him in the woods, but the clear ground we
could not hope to occupy until night, when
darkness would enable us to burrow like moles
and throw up earth. At this point our line
was a quarter-mile away in the edge of a
wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the
enemy's fortified line being the chord of
the arc.

" Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work
up as close as he can get cover, and not to
waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing.
You may leave your horse."

When the general gave this direction we

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 99

were in the fringe of the forest, near the right
extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at
the left. The suggestion to leave the horse
obviously enough meant that Brayle was to
take the longer line, through the woods and
among the men. Indeed, the suggestion was
needless ; to go by the short route meant abso-
lutely certain failure to deliver the message.
Before anybody could interpose, Brayle had
cantered lightly into the field and the enemy's
works were in crackling conflagration.

"Stop that damned fool!" shouted the
general.

A private of the escort, with more ambition
than brains, spurred forward to obey, and
within ten yards left himself and his horse
dead on the field of honor.

Brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily
along, parallel to the enemy and less than two
hundred yards distant. He was a picture to
seel His hat had been blown or shot from
his head, and his long, blond hair rose and fell
with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in
the saddle, holding the reins lightly in his left
hand, his right hanging carelessly at his side.
An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile
as he turned his head one way or the other
proved that the interest which he took in what

100 THE COLLECTED WORKS

was going on was natural and without affecta-
tion.

The picture was intensely dramatic, but in
no degree theatrical. Successive scores of
rifles spat at him viciously as he came within
range, and our own line in the edge of the
timber broke out in visible and audible de-
fense. No longer regardful of themselves or
their orders, our fellows sprang to their feet,
and swarming into the open sent broad sheets
of bullets against the blazing crest of the
offending works, which poured an answering
fire into their unprotected groups with deadly
effect. The artillery on both sides joined the
battle, punctuating the rattle and roar with
deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the
air with storms of screaming grape, which
from the enemy's side splintered the trees and
spattered them with blood, and from ours
defiled the smoke of his arms with banks and
clouds of dust from his parapet.

My attention had been for a moment drawn
to the general combat, but now, glancing
down the unobscured avenue between these
two thunderclouds, I saw Brayle, the cause
of the carnage. Invisible now from either
side, and equally doomed by friend and foe,
he stood in the shot-swept space, motionless,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 101

his face toward the enemy. At some little dis-
tance lay his horse. I instantly saw what had
stopped him.

As topographical engineer I had, early in
the day, made a hasty examination of the
tground, and now remembered that at that
point was a deep and sinuous gully, crossing
half the field from the enemy's line, its general
course at right angles to it. From where we
now were it was invisible, and Brayle had evi-
dently not known about it. Clearly, it was
impassable. Its salient angles would have
afforded him absolute security if he had
chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already
wrought in his favor and leapt into it. He
could not go forward, he would not turn back;
he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him
long waiting.

By some mysterious coincidence, almost in-
stantaneously as he fell, the firing ceased, a
few desultory shots at long intervals serving
rather to accentuate than break the silence. It
was as if both sides had suddenly repented of
their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers
of ours, following a sergeant with a white flag,
soon afterward moved unmolested into the
field, and made straight for Brayle's body.
Several Confederate officers and men came

102 THE COLLECTED WORKS

out to meet them, and with uncovered heads
assisted them to take up their sacred burden.
'As it was borne toward us we heard beyond
the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum — a
dirge. A generous enemy honored the fallen
brave.

Amongst the dead man's eflfects was a soiled
Russia-leather pocketbook. In the distribu-
tion of mementoes of our friend, which the
general, as administrator, decreed, this fell
to me.

A year after the close of the war, on my way
to California, I opened and idly inspected it.
Out of an overlooked compartment fell a let-
ter without envelope or address. It was in a
woman's handwriting, and began with words
of endearment, but no name.

It had the following date line : " San Fran-
cisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The signature was
" Darling," in marks of quotation. Incident-
ally, in the body of the text, the writer's full
name was given — Marian Mendenhall.

The letter showed evidence of cultivation
and good breeding, but it was an ordinary
love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary.
There was not much in it, but there was some-
thing. It was this :

"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 103

for it, has been telling that at some battle
in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were
seen crouching behind a tree. I think he
wants to injure you in my regard, which he
knows the story would do if I believed it. I
could bear to hear of my soldier lover's death,
but not of his cowardice."

These were the words which on that sunny
afternoon, in a distant region, had slain a
hundred men. Is woman weak?

One evening I called on Miss Mendenhall
to return the letter to her. I intended, also,
to tell her what she had done — but not that
she did it. I found her in a handsome dwell-
ing on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful, well
bred — in a word, charming.

"You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I
said, rather abruptly. " You know, doubtless,
that he fell in battle. Among his effects was
found this letter from you. My errand here
is to place it in your hands."

She mechanically took the letter, glanced
through it with deepening color, and then,
looking at me with a smile, said :

" It is very good of you, though I am sure
it was hardly worth while." She started sud-
denly and changed color. "This stain," she
said, " is it — surely it is not "

104. THE COLLECTED WORKS

" Madam," I said, " pardon me, but that is
the blood of the truest and bravest heart that
ever beat."

She hastily flung the letter on the blazing
coals. "Uhl I cannot bear the sight of
blood I " she said. " How did he die? "

I had involuntarily risen to rescue that
scrap of paper, sacred even to me, and now
stood partly behind her. As she asked the
question she turned her face about and slightly
upward. The light of the burning letter was
reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek
with a tinge of crimson like the stain upon its
page. I had never seen anything so beautiful
as this detestable creature.

" He was bitten by a snake," I replied.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 105

THE AFFAIR AT COULTER'S NOTCH

DO you think, Colonel, that your brave
I Coulter would like to put one of his
guns in here?" the general asked.
He was apparently not altogether
serious; it certainly did not seem a place
where any artillerist, however brave, would
like to put a gun. The colonel thought that
possibly his division commander meant good-
humoredly to intimate that in a recent con-
versation between them Captain Coulter's
courage had been too highly extolled.

"General," he replied warmly, "Coulter
would like to put a gun anywhere within
reach of those people," with a motion of his
hand in the direction of the enemy.

" It is the only place," said the general. He
was serious, then.

The place was a depression, a " notch," in
the sharp crest of a hill. It was a pass, and
through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this
highest point in its course by a sinuous ascent
through a thin forest made a similar, though
less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a
mile to the left and a mile to the right, the

106 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ridge, though occupied by Federal infantry
lying close behind the sharp crest and appear-
ing as if held in place by atmospheric press-
ure, was inaccessible to artillery. There was
no place but the bottom of the notch, and that
was barely wide enough for the roadbed.
From the Confederate side this point was
commanded by two batteries posted on a
slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a
half-mile away. All the guns but one were
masked by the trees of an orchard ; that one —
it seemed a bit of impudence — was on ^n open
lawn directly in front of a rather grandiose
building, the planter's dwelling. The gun
was safe enough in its exposure — but only
because the Federal infantry had been for-
bidden to fire. Coulter's Notch — it came to
be called so — was not, that pleasant summer
afternoon, a place where one would " like to
put a gun."

Three or four dead horses lay there
sprawling in the road, three or four dead men
in a trim row at one side of it, and a little
back, down the hill. All but one were cav-
alrymen belonging to the Federal advance.
One was a quartermaster. The general com-
manding the division and the colonel com-
manding the brigade, with their staffs and es-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 107

corts, had ridden into the notch to have a look
at the enemy's guns — which had straightway
obscured themselves in towering clouds of
smoke. It was hardly profitable to be curious
about guns which had the trick of the cuttle-
fish, and the season of observation had been
brief. At its conclusion — a short remove
backward from where it began — occurred the
conversation already partly reported. " It is
the only place," the general repeated thought-
fully, " to get at them."

The colonel looked at him gravely. " There
is room for only one gun, General — one
against twelve."

" That is true — for only one at a time," said
the commander with something like, yet not
altogether like, a smile. " But then, your brave
Coulter — a whole battery in himself."

The tone of irony was now unmistakable.
It angered the colonel, but he did not know
what to say. The spirit of military subordina-
tion is not favorable to retort, nor even to
deprecation.

At this moment a young officer of artillery
came riding slowly up the road attended by
his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could
not have been more than twenty-three years of
age. He was of medium height, but very

108 THE COLLECTED WORKS

slender and lithe, and sat his horse with some-
thing of the air of a civilian. In face he was
of a type singularly unlike the men about him ;
thin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight
blond mustache, and long, rather straggling
hair of the same color. There was an appar-
ent negligence in his attire. His cap was
worn with the visor a trifle askew; his coat
was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing
a considerable expanse of white shirt, toler-
ably clean for that stage of the campaign. But
the negligence was all in his dress and bear-
ing; in his face was a look of intense interest
in his surroundings. His gray eyes, which
seemed occasionally to strike right and left
across the landscape, like search-lights, were
for the most part fixed upon the sky beyond
the Notch ; until he should arrive at the sum-
mit of the road there was nothing else in that
direction to see. As he came opposite his
division and brigade commanders at the road-
side he saluted mechanically and was about to
pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt.

" Captain Coulter," he said, " the enemy
has twelve pieces over there on the next ridge.
If I rightly understand the general, he directs
that you bring up a gun and engage them."

There was a blank silence; the general

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 109

looked stolidly at a distant regiment swarm-
ing slowly up the hill through rough under-
growth, like a torn and draggled cloud of blue
smoke; the captain appeared not to have
observed him. Presently the captain spoke,
slowly and with apparent effort:

"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are
the guns near the house? "

" Ah, you have been over this road before.
Directly at the house."

"And it is — necessary — to engage them?
The order is imperative? "

His voice was husky and broken. He was
visibly paler. The colonel was astonished and
mortified. He stole a glance at the com-
mander. In that set, immobile face was no
sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment
later the general rode away, followed by his
staff and escort. The colonel, humiliated and
indignant, was about to order Captain Coulter
in arrest, when the latter spoke a few words
in a low tone to his bugler, saluted, and rode
straight forward into the Notch, where,
presently, at the summit of the road, his field-
glass at his eyes, he showed against the sky,
he and his horse, sharply defined and
statuesque. The bugler had dashed down the

110 THE COLLECTED WORKS

speed and disappeared behind a wood. Pres-
ently his bugle was heard singing in the ce-
dars, and in an incredibly short time a single
gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses
and manned by its full complement of gunn-
ers, came bounding and banging up the
grade in a storm of dust, unlimbered under
cover, and was run forward by hand to the
fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture
of the captain's arm, some strangely agile
movements of the men in loading, and almost
before the troops along the way had ceased to
hear the rattle of the wheels, a great white
cloud sprang forward down the slope, and
with a deafening report the affair at Coulter's
Notch had begun.

It is not intended to relate in detail the
progress and incidents of that ghastly con-
test— a contest without vicissitudes, its alterna-
tions only different degrees of despair. Al-
most at the instant when Captain Coulter's
gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answer-
ing clouds rolled upward from among the
trees about the plantation house, a deep mul-
tiple report roared back like a broken echo,
and thenceforth to the end the Federal can-
noneers fought their hopeless battle in an
atmosphere of living iron whose thoughts

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 111

were lightnings and whose deeds were
death.

Unwilling to see the efforts which he could
not aid and the slaughter which he could not
stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point
a quarter of a mile to the left, whence the
Notch, itself invisible, but pushing up suc-
cessive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of
a volcano in thundering eruption. With his
glass he watched the enemy's guns, noting as
he could the effects of Coulter's fire — if Coul-
ter still lived to direct it. He saw that the
Federal gunners, ignoring those of the
enemy's pieces whose positions could be de-
termined by their smoke only, gave their
whole attention to the one that maintained its
place in the open — the lawn in front of the
house. Over and about that hardy piece the
shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds.
Some exploded in the house, as could be seen
by thin ascensions of smoke from the breached
roof. Figures of prostrate men and horses
were plainly visible.

" If our fellows are doing so good work
with a single gun," said the colonel to an aide
who happened to be nearest, "they must be
suffering like the devil from twelve. Go
down and present' the commander of that

112 THE COLLECTED WORKS

piece with my congratulations on the accuracy
of his fire."

Turning to his adjutant-general he said,
"Did you observe Coulter's damned reluct-
ance to obey orders?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Well, say nothing about it, please. I
don't think the general will care to make any
accusations. He will probably have enough
to do in explaining his own connection with
this uncommon way of amusing the rear-
guard of a retreating enemy."

A young officer approached from below,
climbing breathless up the acclivity. Almost
before he had saluted, he gasped out:

" Colonel, I am directed by Colonel Har-
mon to say that the enemy's guns are within
easy reach of our rifles, and most of them vis-
ible from several points along the ridge."

The brigade commander looked at him
without a trace of interest in his expression.
" I know it," he said quietly.

The young adjutant was visibly embar-
rassed. " Colonel Harmon would like to have
permission to silence those guns," he stam-
mered.

" So should I," the colonel said in the same
tone. "Present my compliments to Colonel

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 113

Harmon and say to him that the general's
orders for the infantry not to fire are still in
force."

The adjutant saluted and retired. The col-
onel ground his heel into the earth and turned
to look again at the enemy's guns.

" Colonel," said the adjutant-general, " I
don't know that I ought to say anything, but
there is something wrong in all this. Do you
happen to know that Captain Coulter is from
the South?"

"No; was he, indeed?"

" I heard that last summer the division
which the general then commanded was in the
vicinity of Coulter's home — camped there for
weeks, and "

" Listen ! " said the colonel, interrupting
with an upward gesture. "Do you hear
that?''

" That " was the silence of the Federal gun.
The staff, the orderlies, the lines of infantry
behind the crest — all had " heard," and were
looking curiously in the direction of the
crater, whence no smoke now ascended except
desultory cloudlets from the enemy's shells.
Then came the blare of a bugle, a faint rattle
of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports
recommenced with double activity. The de-

114 THE COLLECTED WORKS

molished gun had been replaced with a sound
one.

" Yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming
his narrative, " the general made the acquaint-
ance of Coulter's family. There was trouble
— I don't know the exact nature of it — some-
thing about Coulter's wife. She is a red-hot
Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter
himself, but she is a good wife and high-bred
lady. There was a complaint to army head-
quarters. The general was transferred to this
division. It is odd that Coulter's battery
should afterward have been assigned to it."

The colonel had risen from the rock upon
which they had been sitting. His eyes were
blazing with a generous indignation.

" See here, Morrison," said he, looking his
gossiping staff officer straight in the face, " did
you get that story from a gentleman or a
liar?"

" I don't want to say how I got it. Colonel,
unless it is necessary" — he was blushing a
trifle — "but I'll stake my life upon its truth
in the main."

' The colonel turned toward a small knot of
officers some distance away. " Lieutenant
Williams!" he shouted.

One of the officers detached himself from

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 115

the group and coming forward saluted, say-
ing: "Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you
had been informed. Williams is dead down
there by the gun. What can I do, sir? "

Lieutenant Williams was the aide who had
had the pleasure of conveying to the officer
in charge of the gun his brigade commander's
congratulations.

" Go," said the colonel, " and direct the
withdrawal of that gun instantly. No — I'll
go myself."

He strode down the declivity toward the
rear of the Notch at a break-neck pace, over
rocks and through brambles, followed by his
little retinue in tumultuous disorder. At the
foot of the declivity they mounted their wait-
ing animals and took to the road at a lively
trot, round a bend and into the Notch. The
spectacle which they encountered there was
appalling!

Within that defile, barely broad enough for
a single gun, were piled the wrecks of no
fewer than four. They had noted the silenc-
ing of only the last one disabled — there had
been a lack of men to replace it quickly with
another. The debris lay on both sides of the
road; the men had managed to keep an open
way between, through which the fifth piece

116 THE COLLECTED WORKS

was now firing. The men? — they looked like
demons of the pitl All were hatless, all
stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black
with blotches of powder and spattered with
gouts of blood. They worked like madmen,
with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard.
They set their swollen shoulders and bleeding
hands against the wheels at each recoil and
heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There
were no commands; in that awful environ-
ment of whooping shot, exploding shells,
shrieking fragments of iron, and flying splint-
ers of wood, none could have been heard.
Officers, if officers there were, were indistin-
guishable; all worked together — each while
he lasted — governed by the eye. When the
gun was sponged, it was loaded ; when loaded,
aimed and fired. The colonel observed some-
thing new to his military experience — some-
thing horrible and unnatural: the gun was
bleeding at the mouth I In temporary default
of water, the man sponging had dipped his
sponge into a pool of comrade's blood. In all
this work there was no clashing; the duty of
the instant was obvious. When one fell, an-
other, looking a trifle cleaner, seemed to rise
from the earth in the dead man's tracks, to fall
in his turn.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 117

With the ruined guns lay the ruined men —
alongside the wreckage, under it and atop of
it; and back down the road — a ghastly pro-
cession!— crept on hands and knees such of the
wounded as were able to move. The colonel
— he had compassionately sent his cavalcade
to the right about — had to ride over those who
were entirely dead in order not to crush those
who were partly alive. Into that hell he tran-
quilly held his way, rode up alongside the
gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge,
tapped upon the cheek the man holding the
rammer — who straightway fell, thinking him-
self killed. A fiend seven times damned
sprang out of the smoke to take his place, but
paused and gazed up at the mounted officer
with an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing
between his black lips, his eyes, fierce and
expanded, burning like coals beneath his
bloody brow. The colonel made an author-
itative gesture and pointed to the rear. The
fiend bowed in token of obedience. It was
Captain Coulter.

Simultaneously with the colonel's arresting
sign, silence fell upon the whole field of action.
The procession of missiles no longer streamed
into that defile of death, for the enemy also had
ceased firing. His army had been gone for

118 THE COLLECTED WORKS

hours, and the commander of his rear-guard,
who had held his position perilously long in
hope to silence the Federal fire, at that strange
moment had silenced his own. " I was not
aware of the breadth of my authority," said
the colonel to anybody, riding forward to the
crest to see what had really happened.

An hour later his brigade was in bivouac
on the enemy's ground, and its idlers were
examining, with something of awe, as the
faithful inspect a saint's relics, a score of
straddling dead horses and three disabled
guns, all spiked. The fallen men had been
carried away; their torn and broken bodies
would have given too great satisfaction.

Naturally, the colonel established himself
and his military family in the plantation
house. It was somewhat shattered, but it was
better than the open air. The furniture was
greatly deranged and broken. Walls and
ceilings were knocked away here and there,
and a lingering odor of powder smoke was
everywhere. The beds, the closets of women's
clothing, the cupboards were not greatly dam-
aged. The new tenants for a night made
themselves comfortable, and the virtual
effacement of Coulter's battery supplied them
with an interesting topic.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 119

During supper an orderly of the escort
showed himself into the dining-room and
asked permission to speak to the colonel.

"What is it, Barbour?" said that officer
pleasantly, having overheard the request.

" Colonel, there is something wrong in the
cellar; I don't know what — somebody there.
I was down there rummaging about."

" I will go down and see," said a staff
officer, rising.

" So will I," the colonel said ; " let the
others remain. Lead on, orderly."

They toot a candle from the table and de-
scended the cellar stairs, the orderly in visi-
ble trepidation. The candle made but a
feeble light, but presently, as they advanced,
its narrow circle of illumination revealed a
human figure seated on the ground against
the black stone wall which they were skirting,
its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply for-
ward. The face, which should have been
seen in profile, was invisible, for the man was
bent so far forward that his long hair con-
cealed it; and, strange to relate, the beard, of
a much darker hue, fell in a great tangled
mass and lay along the ground at his side.
They involuntarily paused; then the colonel,
taking the candle from the orderly's shaking

120 THE COLLECTED WORKS

hand, approached the man and attentively
considered him. The long dark beard was
the hair of a woman — dead. The dead
woman clasped in her arms a dead babe.
Both were clasped in the arms of the man,
pressed against his breast, against his lips.
There was blood in the hair of the woman;
there was blood in the hair of the man. A
yard away, near an irregular depression in the
beaten earth which formed the cellar's floor —
a fresh excavation with a convex bit of iron,
having jagged edges, visible in one of the
sides — lay an infant's foot. The colonel held
the light as high as he could. The floor of
the room above was broken through, the
splinters pointing at all angles downward.
"This casemate is not bomb-proof," said the
colonel gravely. It did not occur to him that
his summing up of the matter had any levity
in it.

They stood about the group awhile in
silence; the staff ofiicer was thinking of his
unfinished supper, the orderly of what might
possibly be in one of the casks on the other
side of the cellar. Suddenly the man whom
they had thought dead raised his head and
gazed tranquilly into their faces. His com-
plexion was coal black; the cheeks were ap-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 121

parently tattooed in irregular sinuous lines
from the eyes downward. The lips, too, were
white, like those of a stage negro. There
was blood upon his forehead.

The staff officer drew back a pace, the or-
derly two paces.

" What are you doing here, my man? " said
the colonel, unmoved.

" This house belongs to me, sir," was the
reply, civilly delivered.

"To you? Ah, I see! And these?"

" My wife and child. I am Captain Coul-
ter."

122 THE COLLECTED WORKS

THE COUP DE GRAcE

THE fighting had been hard and con-
tinuous ; that was attested by all the
senses. The very taste of battle was
in the air. All was now over; it re-
mained only to succor the wounded and bury
the dead — to " tidy up a bit," as the humorist
of a burial squad put it. A good deal of
" tidying up " was required. As far as one
could see through the forests, among the
splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses.
Among them moved the stretcher-bearers,
gathering and carrying away the few who
showed signs of- life. Most of the wounded
had died of neglect while the right to min-
ister to their wants was in dispute. It is an
army regulation that the wounded must wait;
the best way to care for them is to win the
battle. It must be confessed that victory is a
distinct advantage to a man requiring atten-
tion, but many do not live to avail themselves
of it.

The dead were collected in groups of a
dozen or a score and laid side by side in rows
while the trenches were dug to receive them.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 123

Some, found at too great a distance from these
rallying points, were buried where they lay.
There was little attempt at identification,
though in most cases, the burial parties being
detailed to glean the same ground which they
had assisted to reap, the names of the victor-
ious dead were known and listed. The
enemy's fallen had to be content with count-
ing. But of that they got enough: many of
them were counted several times, and the
total, as given afterward in the official report
of the victorious commander, denoted rather
a hope than a result.

At some little distance from the spot where
one of the burial parties had established its
" bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform
of a Federal officer stood leaning against a
tree. From his feet upward to his neck his
attitude was that of weariness reposing; but
he turned his head uneasily from side to side;

I his mind was apparently not at rest. He was
perhaps uncertain in which direction to go;
he was not likely to remain long where he was,
for already the level rays of the setting sun

I straggled redly through the open spaces of the
wood and the weary soldiers were quitting
their task for the day. He would hardly
make a night of it alone there among the dead.

124 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Nine men in ten whom you meet after a battle
inquire the way to some fraction of the army
— as if any one could know. Doubtless this
officer was lost. After resting himself a mo-
ment he would presumably follow one of the
retiring burial squads.

When all were gone he walked straight
away into the forest toward the red west, its
light staining his face like blood. The air of
confidence with which he now strode along
showed that he was on familiar ground; he
had recovered his bearings. The dead on his
right and on his left were unregarded as he
passed. An occasional low moan from some
sorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties
had not reached, and who would have to pass
a comfortless night beneath the stars with his
thirst to keep him company, was equally un-
heeded. What, indeed, could the officer have
done, being no surgeon and having no water?

At the head of a shallow ravine, a mere
depression of the ground, lay a small group of
bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from
his course walked rapidly toward them.
Scanning each one sharply as he passed, he
stopped at last above one which lay at a slight
remove from the others, near a clump of small
trees. He looked at it narrowly. It seemed

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 125

to stir. He stooped and laid his hand upon
its face. It screamed.

The officer was Captain Downing Mad-
well, of a Massachusetts regiment of infantry,
a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable
man.

In the regiment were two brothers named
Halcrow — Caffal and Creede Halcrow. Caf-
fal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Mad-
well's company, and these two men, the
sergeant and the captain, were devoted
friends. In so far as disparity of rank, differ-
ence in duties and considerations of military
discipline would permit they were commonly
together. They had, indeed, grown up to-
gether from childhood. A habit of the heart
is not easily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had
nothing military in his taste nor disposition,
but the thought of separation from his friend
was disagreeable ; he enlisted in the company
in which Madwell was second-lieutenant.
Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but
between the highest non-commissioned and the
lowest commissioned officer the gulf is deep
and wide and the old relation was maintained
with difficulty and a difference.

Creede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was

126 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the major of the regiment — a cynical, saturn-
ine man, between whom and Captain Mad-
well there was a natural antipathy which cir-
cumstances had nourished and strengthened
to an active animosity. But for the restrain-
ing influence of their mutual relation to Caffal
these two patriots would doubtless have en-
deavored to deprive their country of each |
other's services.

At the opening of the battle that morning
the regiment was performing outpost duty a
mile away from the main army. It was at-
tacked and nearly surrounded in the forest,
but stubbornly held its ground. During a
lull in the fighting. Major Halcrow came
to Captain Madwell. The two exchanged
formal salutes, and the major said : " Cap-
tain, the colonel directs that you push your
company to the head of this ravine and hold
your place there until recalled. I need
hardly apprise you of the dangerous charac-
ter of the movement, but if you wish, you
can, I suppose, turn over the command to your
first-lieutenant. I was not, however, directed
to authorize the substitution; it is merely a
suggestion of my own, unofficially made."

To this deadly insult Captain Madwell
coolly replied:

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 127

" Sir, I invite you to accompany the move-
ment. A mounted officer would be a con-
spicuous mark, and I have long held the
opinion that it v^ould be better if you were
dead."

The art of repartee was cultivated in mili-
tary circles as early as 1862.

A half-hour later Captain Madwell's com-
pany was driven from its position at the head
of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its num-
ber. Among the fallen was Sergeant Hal-
crow. The regiment was soon afterward
forced back to the main line, and at the close
of the battle was miles away. The captain
was now standing at the side of his subordi-
nate and friend.

Sergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His
clothing was deranged ; it seemed to have been
violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen.
Some of the buttons of his jacket had been
pulled off and lay on the ground beside him
and fragments of his other garments were
strewn about. His leather belt was parted
and had apparently been dragged from be-
neath him as he lay. There had been no great
effusion of blood. The only visible wound
was a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen.

128 THE COLLECTED WORKS

It was defiled with earth and dead leaves.
Protruding from it was a loop of small in-
testine. In all his experience Captain Mad-
well had not seen a wound like this. He
could neither conjecture how it was made nor
explain the attendant circumstances — the
strangely torn clothing, the parted belt, the
besmirching of the white skin. He knelt and
made a closer examination. When he rose to
his feet, he turned his eyes in different direc-
tions as if looking for an enemy. Fifty yards
away, on the crest of a low, thinly wooded
hill, he saw several dark objects moving about
among the fallen men — a herd of swine. One
stood with its back to him, its shoulders
sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a
human body, its head was depressed and in-
visible. The bristly ridge of its chine
showed black against the red west. Captain
Madwell drew away his eyes and fixed them
again upon the thing which had been his
friend.

The man who had suffered these monstrous
mutilations was alive. At intervals he moved
his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He
stared blankly into the face of his friend and
if touched screamed. In his giant agony he
had torn up the ground on which he lay; his

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 129

clenched hands were full of leaves and twigs
and earth. Articulate speech was beyond his
power; it was impossible to know if he were
sensible to anything but pain. The expres-
sion of his face was an appeal ; his eyes were
full of prayer. For what?

There was no misreading that look; the
captain had too frequently seen it in eyes
of those whose lips had still the power to
formulate it by an entreaty for death. Con-
sciously or unconsciously, this writhing frag-
ment of humanity, this type and example of
acute sensation, this handiwork of man and
beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was
imploring everything, all, the whole non-ego,
for the boon of oblivion. To the earth and
the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to what-
ever took form in sense or consciousness, this
incarnate suffering addressed that silent plea.

For what, indeed? For that which we ac-
cord to even the meanest creature without
sense to demand it, denying it only to the
wretched of our own race: for the blessed re-
lease, the rite of uttermost compassion, the
coup de grace.

Captain Madwell spoke the name of his
friend. He repeated it over and over with-
out effect until emotion choked his utterance.

130 THE COLLECTED WORKS

His tears plashed upon the livid face beneath
his own and blinded himself. He saw no-
thing but a blurred and moving object, but
the moans were more distinct than ever, inter-
rupted at briefer intervals by sharper shrieks.
He turned away, struck his hand upon his
forehead, and strode from the spot. The
swine, catching sight of him, threw up their
crimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously
a second, and then with a gruff, concerted
grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its
foreleg splintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its
head sidewise from the ground and neighed
piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew
his revolver and shot the poor beast between
the eyes, narrowly observing its death-
struggle, which, contrary to his expectation,
was violent and long; but at last it lay still.
The tense muscles of its lips, which had un-
covered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed ;
the sharp, clean-cut profile took on a look of
profound peace and rest.

Along the distant, thinly wooded crest to
westward the fringe of sunset fire had now
nearly burned itself out. The light upon the
trunks of the trees had faded to a tender gray ;
shadows were in their tops, like great dark
birds aperch. Night was coming and there

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 131

were miles of haunted forest between Captain
Madwell and camp. Yet he stood there at
the side of the dead animal, apparently lost to
all sense of his surroundings. His eyes were
bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand
hung loosely at his side, his right still held the
pistol. Presently he lifted his face, turned it
toward his dying friend and walked rapidly
back to his side. He knelt upon one knee,
cocked the weapon, placed the muzzle against
the man's forehead, and turning away his eyes
pulled the trigger. There was no report. He
had used his last cartridge for the horse.

The sufferer moaned and his lips moved
convulsively. The froth that ran from them
had a tinge of blood.

Captain Madwell rose to his feet and drew
his sword from the scabbard. He passed the
fingers of his left hand along the edge from
hilt to point. He held it out straight before
him, as if to test his nerves. There was no
visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak
skylight that it reflected was steady and true.
He stooped and with his left hand tore away
the dying man's shirt, rose and placed the
point of the sword just over the heart. This
time he did not withdraw his eyes. Grasping
the hilt with both hands, he thrust downward

132 THE COLLECTED WORKS

with all his strength and weight. The blade
sank into the man's body — through his body
into the earth; Captain Madwell came near
falling forward upon his work. The dying
man drew up his knees and at the same time
threw his right arm across his breast and
grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles
of the hand visibly whitened. By a violent
but vain effort to withdraw the blade the
wound was enlarged ; a rill of blood escaped,
running sinuously down into the deranged
clothing. At that moment three men stepped
silently forward from behind the clump of
young trees which had concealed their ap-
proach. Two were hospital attendants and
carried a stretcher.
The third was Major Creede Halcrow.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 133

P

son."

PARKER ADDERSON,
PHILOSOPHER

RISONER, what is your name?"

" As I am to lose it at daylight to-
morrow morning it is hardly worth
while concealing it. Parker Adder-

"Your rank?"

" A somewhat humble one ; commissioned
officers are too precious to be risked in the
perilous business of a spy. I am a sergeant."

"Of what regiment?"

"You must excuse me; my answer might,
for anything I know, give you an idea of
whose forces are in your front. Such know-
ledge as that is what I came into your lines to
obtain, not to impart."

" You are not without wit."

" If you have the patience to wait you will
find me dull enough to-morrow."

" How do you know that you are to die to-
morrow morning?"

" Among spies captured by night that is the
custom. It is one of the nice observances of
the profession."

134 THE COLLECTED WORKS

The general so far laid aside the dignity
appropriate to a Confederate officer of high
rank and wide renown as to smile. But no
one in his power and out of his favor would
have drawn any happy augury from that out-
ward and visible sign of approval. It was
neither genial nor infectious ; it did not com-
municate itself to the other persons exposed to
it — the caught spy who had provoked it and
the armed guard who had brought him into
the tent and now stood a little apart, watching
his prisoner in the yellow candle-light. It
was no part of that warrior's duty to smile; he
had been detailed for another purpose. The
conversation was resumed ; it was in character
a trial for a capital offense.

"You admit, then, that you are a spy —
that you came into my camp, disguised as
you are in the uniform of a Confederate sol-
dier, to obtain information secretly regard-
ing the numbers and disposition of my
troops."

"Regarding, particularly, their numbers.
Their disposition I already knew. It is
morose."

The general brightened again; the guard,
with a severer sense of his responsibility, ac-
centuated the austerity of his expression and

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 135

stood a trifle more erect than before. Twirl-
ing his gray slouch hat round and round upon
his forefinger, the spy took a leisurely survey
of his surroundings. They were simple
enough. The tent was a common " wall
tent," about eight feet by ten in dimensions,
lighted by a single tallow candle stuck into
the haft of a bayonet, which was itself stuck
into a pine table at which the general sat, now
busily writing and apparently forgetful of his
unwilling guest. An old rag carpet covered
the earthen floor; an older leather trunk, a
second chair and a roll of blankets were about
all else that the tent contained; in General
Clavering's command Confederate simplicity
and penury of " pomp and circumstance " had
attained their highest development. On a
large nail driven into the tent pole at the en-
trance was suspended a sword-belt supporting
a long sabre, a pistol in its holster and, ab-
surdly enough, a bowie-knife. Of that most
unmilitary weapon it was the general's habit
to explain that it was a souvenir of the peace-
ful days when he was a civilian.

It was a stormy night. The rain cascaded
upon the canvas in torrents, with the dull,
drum-like sound familiar to dwellers in tents.
As the whooping blasts charged upon it the

136 THE COLLECTED WORKS

frail structure shook and swayed and strained
at its confining stakes and ropes.

The general finished writing, folded the
half-sheet of paper and spoke to the soldier
guarding Adderson : " Here, Tassman, take
that to the adjutant-general ; then return."

"And the prisoner, General?" said the
soldier, saluting, with an inquiring glance in
the direction of that unfortunate.

" Do as I said," replied the officer, curtly.

The soldier took the note and ducked
himself out of the tent. General Clavering
turned his handsome face toward the Federal
spy, looked him in the eyes, not unkindly, and
said : " It is a bad night, my man."

" For me, yes."

" Do you guess what I have written?"

"Something worth reading, I dare say.
And — perhaps it is my vanity — I venture to
suppose that I am mentioned in it."

" Yes ; it is a memorandum for an order to
be read to the troops at reveille concerning
your execution. Also some notes for the
guidance of the provost-marshal in arranging
the details of that event."

" I hope. General, the spectacle will be in-
telligently arranged, for I shall attend it my-
self."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 137

" Have you any arrangements of your own
that you wish to make? Do you wish to see a
chaplain, for example?"

"I could hardly secure a longer rest for
myself by depriving him of some of his."

"Good God, man! do you mean to go to
your death with nothing but jokes upon your
lips? Do you know that this is a serious mat-
ter?"

"How can I know that? I have never
been dead in all my life. I have heard that
death is a serious matter, but never from any
of those who have experienced it."

The general was silent for a moment; the
man interested, perhaps amused him — a type
not previously encountered.

" Death," he said, " is at least a loss — a loss
of such happiness as we have, and of oppor-
tunities for more."

"A loss of which we shall never be con-
scious can be borne with composure and there-
fore expected without apprehension. You
must have observed, General, that of all the
dead men with whom it is your soldierly
pleasure to strew your path none shows signs
of regret."

" If the being dead is not a regrettable con-
dition, yet the becoming so — the act of dying

138 THE COLLECTED WORKS

— appears to be distinctly disagreeable to one
who has not lost the power to feel."

^^ Pain is disagreeable, no doubt. I never
suffer it without more or less discomfort. But
he who lives longest is most exposed to it.
What you call dying is simply the last pain —
there is really no such thing as dying. Sup-
pose, for illustration, that I attempt to escape.
You lift the revolver that you are courteously
concealing in your lap, and "

The general blushed like a girl, then
laughed softly, disclosing his brilliant teeth,
made a slight inclination of his handsome
head and said nothing. The spy continued:
" You fire, and I have in my stomach what I
did not swallow. I fall, but am not dead.
After a half-hour of agony I am dead. But
at any given instant of that half-hour I was
either alive or dead. There is no transition
period.

"When I am hanged to-morrow morning
it will be quite the same; while conscious I
shall be living; when dead, unconscious.
Nature appears to have ordered the matter
quite in my interest — the way that I should
have ordered it myself. It is so simple," he
added with a smile, " that it seems hardly
worth while to be hanged at all."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 139

At the finish of his remarks there was a
long silence. The general sat impassive,
looking into the man's face, but apparently not
attentive to what had been said. It was as
if his eyes had mounted guard over the
prisoner while his mind concerned itself with
other matters. Presently he drew a long,
deep breath, shuddered, as one awakened from
a dreadful dream, and exclaimed almost in-
audibly: "Death is horrible!" — this man of
death.

" It was horrible to our savage ancestors,"
said the spy, gravely, " because they had not
enough intelligence to dissociate the idea of
consciousness from the idea of the physical
forms in which it is manifested — as an even
lower order of intelligence, that of the
monkey, for example, may be unable to
imagine a house without inhabitants, and see-
ing a ruined hut fancies a suffering occupant.
To us it is horrible because we have inherited
the tendency to think it so, accounting for the
notion by wild and fanciful theories of an-
other world — as names of places give rise to
legends explaining them and reasonless con-
duct to philosophies in justification. You can
hang me. General, but there your power of
evil ends ; you cannot condemn me to heaven."

140 THE COLLECTED WORKS

The general appeared not to have heard;
the spy's talk had merely turned his thoughts
into an unfamiliar channel, but there they
pursued their will independently to conclu-
sions of their own. The storm had ceased,
and something of the solemn spirit of the
night had imparted itself to his reflections,
giving them the sombre tinge of a super-
natural dread. Perhaps there was an element
of prescience in it. " I should not like to die,"
he said — "not to-night."

He was interrupted — if, indeed, he had in-
tended to speak further — by the entrance of
an officer of his staff, Captain Hasterlick, the
provost-marshal. This recalled him to him-
self; the absent look passed away from his
face.

"Captain," he said, acknowledging the
officer's salute, " this man is a Yankee spy cap-
tured inside our lines with incriminating
papers on him. He has confessed. How is
the weather? "

" The storm is over, sir, and the moon shin-
ing."

"Good; take a file of men, conduct him
at once to the parade ground, and shoot
him."

A sharp cry broke from the spy's lips. He

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 141

threw himself forward, thrust out his neck, ex-
panded his eyes, clenched his hands.

"Good God!" he cried hoarsely, almost
inarticulately; "you do not mean that! You
forget — I am not to die until morning."

" I have said nothing of morning," replied
the general, coldly ; " that was an assumption
of your own. You die now."

" But, General, I beg — I implore you to re-
member; I am to hang! It will take some
time to erect the gallows — two hours — an
hour. Spies are hanged ; I have rights under
military law. For Heaven's sake. General,
consider how short "

" Captain, observe my directions."

The officer drew his sword and fixing his
eyes upon the prisoner pointed silently to the
opening of the tent. The prisoner hesitated;
the officer grasped him by the collar and
pushed him gently forward. As he ap-
proached the tent pole the frantic man sprang
to it and with cat-like agility seized the handle
of the bowie-knife, plucked the weapon from
the scabbard and thrusting the captain aside
leaped upon the general with the fury of a
madman, hurling him to the ground and fall-
ing headlong upon him as he lay. The table
was overturned, the candle extinguished and

142 THE COLLECTED WORKS

they fought blindly in the darkness. The
provost-marshal sprang to the assistance of his
superior ofBcer and was himself prostrated
upon the struggling forms. Curses and inar-
ticulate cries of rage and pain came from the
welter of limbs and bodies; the tent came
down upon them and beneath its hampering
and enveloping folds the struggle went on.
Private Tassman, returning from his errand
and dimly conjecturing the situation, threw
down his rifle and laying hold of the flounc-
ing canvas at random vainly tried to drag it
off the men under it; and the sentinel who
paced up and down in front, not daring to
leave his beat though the skies should fall,
discharged his rifle. The report alarmed
the camp ; drums beat the long roll and bugles
sounded the assembly, bringing swarms of
half-clad men into the moonlight, dressing
as they ran, and falling into line at the sharp
commands of their oflScers. This was well;
being in line the men were under control ; they
stood at arms while the general's staff and the
men of his escort brought order out of con-
fusion by lifting off the fallen tent and pulling
apart the breathless and bleeding actors in that
strange contention.
Breathless, indeed, was one : the captain was

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 143

dead; the handle of the bowie-knife, protrud-
ing from his throat, was pressed back beneath
his chin until the end had caught in the angle
of the jaw and the hand that delivered the
blow had been unable to remove the weapon.
In the dead man's hand was his sword,
clenched with a grip that defied the strength
of the living. Its blade was streaked with red
to the hilt.

Lifted to his feet, the general sank back to
the earth with a moan and fainted. Besides
his bruises he had two sword-thrusts — one
through the thigh, the other through the
shoulder.

The spy had suffered the least damage.
Apart from a broken right arm, his wounds
were such only as might have been incurred
in an ordinary combat with nature's weapons.
But he was dazed and seemed hardly to know
what had occurred. He shrank away from
those attending him, cowered upon the ground
and uttered unintelligible remonstrances.
His face, swollen by blows and stained with
gouts of blood, nevertheless showed white be-
neath his disheveled hair — as white as that of
a corpse.

" The man is not insane," said the surgeon,
preparing bandages and replying to a ques-

lU THE COLLECTED WORKS

tion ; " he is suffering from fright. Who and
what is he?"

Private Tassman began to explain. It was
the opportunity of his life; he omitted no-
thing that could in any way accentuate the
importance of his o\yn relation to the night's
events. When he had finished his story and
was ready to begin it again nobody gave him
any attention.

The general had now recovered conscious-
ness. He raised himself upon his elbow,
looked about him, and, seeing the spy crouch-
ing by a camp-fire, guarded, said simply:

" Take that man to the parade ground and
shoot him."

" The general's mind wanders," said an of-
ficer standing near.

" His mind does not wander," the adjutant-
general said. " I have a memorandum from
him about this business; he had given that
same order to Hasterlick" — with a motion of
the hand toward the dead provost-marshal —
" and, by God! it shall be executed."

Ten minutes later Sergeant Parker Adder-'
son, of the Federal army, philosopher and wit,
kneeling in the moonlight and begging in-
coherently for his life, was shot to death by
twenty men. As the volley rang out upon the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 145

keen air of the midnight, General Clavering,
lying white and still in the red glow of the
camp-fire, opened his big blue eyes, looked
pleasantly upon those about him and said:
"How silent it all is!"

The surgeon looked at the adjutant-general,
gravely and significantly. The patient's eyes
slowly closed, and thus he lay for a few
moments ; then, his face suffused with a smile
of ineffable sweetness, he said, faintly : " I
suppose this must be death," and so passed
away.

146 THE COLLECTED WORKS

AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS
I

CONCERNING THE WISH TO BE DEAD

TWO men sat in conversation. One
was the Governor of the State. The
year was 1861 ; the war was on and
the Governor already famous for
the intelligence and zeal with which he di-
rected all the powers and resources of his
State to the service of the Union.

"What! you?'' the Governor was saying in
evident surprise — " you too want a military
commission? Really, the fifing and drumm-
ing must have effected a profound alteration
in your convictions. In my character of re-
cruiting sergeant I suppose I ought not to be
fastidious, but" — there was a touch of irony
in his manner — "well, have you forgotten
that an oath of allegiance is required?"

" I have altered neither my convictions nor
my sympathies," said the other, tranquilly.
"While my sympathies are with the South, as
you do me the honor to recollect, I have never

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 147

doubted that the North was in the right. I
am a Southerner in fact and in feeling, but it
is my habit in matters of importance to act as
I think, not as I feel."

The Governor was absently tapping his desk
with a pencil; he did not immediately reply.
After a while he said : " I have heard that
there are all kinds of men in the world, so I
suppose there are some like that, and doubt-
less you think yourself one. I've known
you a long time and — pardon me — I don't
think so."

" Then I am to understand that my applica-
tion is denied?"

" Unless you can remove my belief that
your Southern sympathies are in some de-
gree a disqualification, yes. I do not doubt
your good faith, and I know you to be abun-
dantly fitted by intelligence and special train-
ing for the duties of an officer. Your convic-
tions, you say, favor the Union cause, but I
prefer a man with his heart in it. The heart
is what men fight with."

" Look here. Governor," said the younger
man, with a smile that had more light than
warmth : " I have something up my sleeve —
a qualification which I had hoped it would
not be necessary to mention. A great military

148 THE COLLECTED WORKS

authority has given a simple recipe for being
a good soldier: *Try always to get yourself
killed.' It is with that purpose that I wish to
enter the service. I am not, perhaps, much
of a patriot, but I wish to be dead."

The Governor looked at him rather sharply,
then a little coldly. " There is a simpler and
franker way," he said.

"In my family, sir," was the reply, "we
do not do that — no Armisted has ever done
that."

A long silence ensued and neither man
looked at the other. Presently the Governor
lifted his eyes from the pencil, which had
resumed its tapping, and said:

"Who is she?"

" My wife."

The Governor tossed the pencil into the
desk, rose and walked two or three times
across the room. Then he turned to Armisted,
who also had risen, looked at him more coldly
than before and said : " But the man — would
it not be better that he — could not the country
spare him better than it can spare you? Or
are the Armisteds opposed to * the unwritten
law'?"

The Armisteds, apparently, could feel an
insult: the face of the younger man flushed,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 149

then paled, but he subdued himself to the
service of his purpose.

" The man's identity is unknown to me," he
said, calmly enough.

" Pardon me," said the Governor, with even
less of visible contrition than commonly un-
derlies those words. After a moment's reflec-
tion he added : " I shall send you to-morrow
a captain's commission in the Tenth Infantry,
now at Nashville, Tennessee. Good night."

" Good night, sir. I thank you."

Left alone, the Governor remained for a
time motionless, leaning against his desk.
Presently he shrugged his shoulders as if
throwing off a burden. " This is a bad busi-
ness," he said.

Seating himself at a reading-table before
the fire, he took up the book nearest his hand,
absently opening it. His eyes fell upon this
sentence :

"When God made it necessary for an un-
faithful wife to lie about her husband in justi-
fication of her own sins He had the tender-
ness to endow men with the folly to believe
her."

He looked at the title of the book; it was,
His Excellency the Fool,

He flung the volume into the fire.

150 THE COLLECTED WORKS

11

HOW TO SAY WHAT IS WORTH HEARING

The enemy, defeated in two days of battle
at Pittsburg Landing, had sullenly retired to
Corinth, whence he had come. For manifest
incompetence Grant, whose beaten army had
been saved from destruction and capture by
Buell's soldierly activity and skill, had been
relieved of his command, which nevertheless
had not been given to Buell, but to Halleck,
a man of unproved powers, a theorist, slugg-
ish, irresolute. Foot by foot his troops,
always deployed in line-of-battle to resist the
enemy's bickering skirmishers, always en-
trenching against the columns that never
came, advanced across the thirty miles of
forest and swamp toward an antagonist pre-
pared to vanish at contact, like a ghost at
cock-crow. It was a campaign of " excursions
and alarums," of reconnoissances and counter-
marches, of cross-purposes and counter-
manded orders. For weeks the solemn farce
held attention, luring distinguished civilians
from fields of political ambition to see what
they safely could of the horrors of war.
Among these was our friend the Governor.
At the headquarters of the army and in the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 151

camps of the troops from his State he was
a familiar figure, attended by the several
members of his personal stafif, showily horsed,
faultlessly betailored and bravely silk-hatted.
Things of charm they were, rich in sugges-
tions of peaceful lands beyond a sea of strife.
The bedraggled soldier looked up from his
trench as they passed, leaned upon his spade
and audibly damned them to signify his sense
of their ornamental irrelevance to the austeri-
ties of his trade.

" I think. Governor," said General Master-
son one day, going into informal session atop
of his horse and throwing one leg across the
pommel of his saddle, his favorite posture —
*^ I think I would not ride any farther in that
direction if I were you. We've nothing out
there but a line of skirmishers. That, I pre-
sume, is why I was directed to put these siege
guns here: if the skirmishers are driven in
the enemy will die of dejection at being un-
able to haul them away — they're a trifle
heavy."

There is reason to fear that the unstrained
quality of this military humor dropped not as
the gentle rain from heaven upon the place
beneath the civilian's silk hat. Anyhow he
abated none of his» dignity in recognition.

152 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" I understand," he said, gravely, " that
some of my men are out there — a company
of the Tenth, commanded by Captain Armi-
sted. I should like to meet him if you do not
mind."

" He is worth meeting. But there's a bad
bit of jungle out there, and I should advise
that you leave your horse and " — with a look
at the Governor's retinue — "your other im-
pedimenta."

The Governor went forward alone and on
foot. In a half-hour he had pushed through
a tangled undergrowth covering a boggy soil
and entered upon firm and more open ground.
Here he found a half-company of infantry
lounging behind a line of stacked rifles. The
men wore their accoutrements — their belts,
cartridge-boxes, haversacks and canteens.
Some lying at full length on the dry leaves
were fast asleep: others in small groups gos-
siped idly of this and that; a few played at
cards; none was far from the line of stacked
arms. To the civilian's eye the scene was one
of carelessness, confusion, indifference; a sol-
dier would have observed expectancy and
readiness.

At a little distance apart an officer in
fatigue uniform, armed, sat on a fallen tree

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 153

noting the approach of the visitor, to whom a
sergeant, rising from one of the groups, now
came forward.

" I wish to see Captain Armisted," said the
Governor.

The sergeant eyed him narrowly, saying
nothing, pointed to the officer, and taking a
rifle from one of the stacks, accompanied
him.

"This man wants to see you, sir," said the
sergeant, saluting. The officer rose.

It would have been a sharp eye that would
have recognized him. His hair, which but a
few months before had been brown, was
streaked with gray. His face, tanned by
exposure, was seamed as with age. A long
livid scar across the forehead marked the
stroke of a sabre; one cheek was drawn and
puckered by the work of a bullet. Only a
woman of the loyal North would have
thought the man handsome.

"Armisted — Captain," said the Governor,
extending his hand, "do you not know
me?"

" I know you, sir, and I salute you — as the
Governor of my State."

Lifting his right hand to the level of his
eyes he threw it outward and downward. In

154 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the code of military etiquette there is no pro-
vision for shaking hands. That of the civilian
was withdrawn. If he felt either surprise or
chagrin his face did not betray it.

" It is the hand that signed your commis-
sion," he said.

" And it is the hand "

The sentence remains unfinished. The
sharp report of a rifle came from the front,
followed by another and another. A bullet
hissed through the forest and struck a tree near
by. The men sprang from the ground and
even before the captain's high, clear voice was
done intoning the command " At-ten-tion ! "
had fallen into line in rear of the stacked arms.
Again — and now through the din of a crack-
ling fusillade— sounded the strong, deliberate
sing-song of authority: "Take . . . arms!"
followed by the rattle of unlocking bayo-
nets.

Bullets from the unseen enemy were now
flying thick and fast, though mostly well spent
and emitting the humming sound which signi-
fied interference by twigs and rotation in the
plane of flight. Two or three of the men in
the line were already struck and down. A
few wounded men came limping awkwardly
out of the undergrowth from the skirmish line

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 155

in front; most of them did not pause, but held
their way with white faces and set teeth to the
rear.

Suddenly there was a deep, jarring report in
front, followed by the startling rush of a shell,
which passing overhead exploded in the edge
of a thicket, setting afire the fallen leaves.
Penetrating the din — seeming to float above it
like the melody of a soaring bird — rang the
slow, aspirated monotones of the captain's sev-
eral commands, without emphasis, without
accent, musical and restful as an evensong
under the harvest moon. Familiar with this
tranquilizing chant in moments of imminent
peril, these raw soldiers of less than a year's
training yielded themselves to the spell, exe-
cuting its mandates with the composure and
precision of veterans. Even the distinguished
civilian behind his tree, hesitating between
pride and terror, was accessible to its charm
and suasion. He was conscious of a forti-
fied resolution and ran away only when the
skirmishers, under orders to rally on the re-
serve, came out of the woods like hunted hares
and formed on the left of the stiff little line,
breathing hard and thankful for the boon of
breath.

156 THE COLLECTED WORKS

III

THE FIGHTING OF ONE WHOSE HEART WAS
NOT IN THE QUARREL

Guided in his retreat by that of the
fugitive wounded, the Governor struggled
bravely to the rear through the "bad bit of
jungle." He was well winded and a trifle con-
fused. Excepting a single rifle-shot now and
again, there was no sound of strife behind
him; the enemy was pulling himself together
for a new onset against an antagonist of whose
numbers and tactical disposition he was in
doubt. The fugitive felt that he would prob-
ably be spared to his country, and only com-
mended the arrangements of Providence to
that end, but in leaping a small brook in more
open ground one of the arrangements incurred
the mischance of a disabling sprain at the
ankle. He was unable to continue his flight,
for he was too fat to hop, and after several
vain attempts, causing intolerable pain, seated
himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble dis-
ability and deprecate the military situation.

A brisk renewal of the firing broke out and
stray bullets came flitting and droning by.
Then came the crash of two clean, definite

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 157

volleys, followed by a continuous rattle,
through which he heard the yells and cheers
of the combatants, punctuated by thunder-
claps of cannon. All this told him that
Armisted's little command was bitterly beset
and fighting at close quarters. The wounded
men whom he had distanced began to straggle
by on either hand, their numbers visibly aug-
mented by new levies from the line. Singly
and by twos and threes, some supporting com-
rades more desperately hurt than themselves,
but all deaf to his appeals for assistance, they
sifted through the underbrush and disap-
peared. The firing was increasingly louder
and more distinct, and presently the ailing
fugitives were succeeded by men who strode
with a firmer tread, occasionally facing about
and discharging their pieces, then doggedly
resuming their retreat, reloading as they
walked. Two or three fell as he looked, and
lay motionless. One had enough of life left
in him to make a pitiful attempt to drag him-
self to cover. A passing comrade paused
beside him long enough to fire, appraised the
poor devil's disability with a look and moved
sullenly on, inserting a cartridge in his
weapon.

In all this was none of the pomp of war

158 THE COLLECTED WORKS

' — no hint of glory. Even in his distress and
peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to
contrast it with the gorgeous parades and
reviews held in honor of himself — with the
brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and
the marching. It was an ugly and sickening
business : to all that was artistic in his nature,
revolting, brutal, in bad taste.

" Ugh ! " he grunted, shuddering — " this is
beastly I Where is the charm of it all?
Where are the elevated sentiments, the devo-
tion, the heroism, the "

From a point somewhere near, in the direc-
tion of the pursuing enemy, rose the clear, de-
liberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.

"Stead-y, men — stead-y. Halt! Com-
mence fir-ing."

The rattle of fewer than a score of rifles
could be distinguished through the general
uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto:

" Cease fir-ing. In re-treat ....
maaarch! "

In a few moments this remnant had drifted
slowly past the Governor, all to the right of
him as they faced in retiring, the men de-
ployed at intervals of a half-dozen paces. At
the extreme left and a few yards behind came
the captain. The civilian called out his name,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 159

but he did not hear. A swarm of men in gray-
now broke out of cover in pursuit, making
directly for the spot where the Governor lay
— some accident of the ground had caused
them to converge upon that point: their line
had become a crowd. In a last struggle for
life and liberty the Governor attempted to
rise, and looking back the captain saw him.
Promptly, but with the same slow precision as
before, he sang his commands :

" Skirm-ish-ers, halt!" The men stopped
and according to rule turned to face the
enemy.

"Ral-ly on the right!" — and they came in
at a run, fixing bayonets and forming loosely
on the man at that end of the line.

" Forward . . to save the Gov-ern-or of
your State . . doub-le quick . . . maaarch!"

Only one man disobeyed this astonishing
command! He was dead. With a cheer they
sprang forward over the twenty or thirty
paces between them and their task. The cap-
tain having a shorter distance to go arrived
first — simultaneously with the enemy. A
half-dozen hasty shots were fired at him, and
the foremost man — a fellow of heroic stature,
hatless and bare-breasted — made a vicious
sweep at his head with a clubbed rifle. The

160 THE COLLECTED WORKS

officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken
arm and drove his sword to the hilt into the
giant's breast. As the body fell the weapon
was wrenched from his hand and before he
could pluck his revolver from the scabbard
at his belt another man leaped upon him like
a tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat
and bearing him backward upon the prostrate
Governor, still struggling to rise. This man
was promptly spitted upon the bayonet of a
Federal sergeant and his death-gripe on the
captain's throat loosened by a kick upon each
wrist. When the captain had risen he was at
the rear of his men, who had all passed over
and around him and were thrusting fiercely at
their more numerous but less coherent antag-
onists. Nearly all the rifles on both sides were
empty and in the crush there was neither
time nor room to reload. The Confederates
were at a disadvantage in that most of them
lacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning
— and a clubbed rifle is a formidable arm.
The sound of the conflict was a clatter like
that of the interlocking horns of battling bulls
— now and then the pash of a crushed skull,
an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a
rifle's muzzle against the abdomen transfixed
by its bayonet. Through an opening made by

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 161

the fall of one of his men Captain Armisted
sprang, with his dangling left arm ; in his right
hand a full-charged revolver, v^hich he fired
with rapidity and terrible effect into the thick
of the gray crowd : but across the bodies of the
slain the survivors in the front were pushed
forward by their comrades in the rear till
again they breasted the tireless bayonets.
There were fewer bayonets now to breast — a
beggarly half-dozen, all told. A few minutes
more of this rough work — a little fighting
back to back — and all would be over.

Suddenly a lively firing was heard on the
right and the left: a fresh line of Federal
skirmishers came forward at a run, driving
before them those parts of the Confederate
line that had been separated by staying the
advance of the centre. And behind these new
and noisy combatants, at a distance of two or
three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct
among the trees a line-of-battle!

Instinctively before retiring, the crowd in
gray made a tremendous rush upon its hand-
ful of antagonists, overwhelming them by
mere momentum and, unable to use weapons
in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely
on their limbs, their bodies, their necks, their
faces; then retiring with bloody feet across its

162 THE COLLECTED WORKS

own dead it joined the general rout and the
incident was at an end.

THE GREAT HONOR THE GREAT

The Governor, who had been unconscious,
opened his eyes and stared about him, slowly
recalling the day's events. A man in the uni-
form of a major was kneeling beside him ; he
was a surgeon. Grouped about were the
civilian members of the Governor's staff,
their faces expressing a natural solicitude
regarding their offices. A little apart stood
General Masterson addressing another officer
and gesticulating with a cigar. He was say-
ing: "It was the beautifulest fight ever
made — by God, sir, it was great!"

The beauty and greatness were attested by
a row of dead, trimly disposed, and another of
wounded, less formally placed, restless, half-
naked, but bravely bebandaged.

" How do you feel, sir?" said the surgeon.
" I find no wound."

" I think I am all right," the patient
replied, sitting up. " It is that ankle."

The surgeon transferred his attention to the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 163

ankle, cutting away the boot. All eyes fol-
lowed the knife.

In moving the leg a folded paper was un-
covered. The patient picked it up and care-
lessly opened it. It was a letter three months
old, signed "Julia." Catching sight of his
name in it he read it. It was nothing very
remarkable — merely a weak woman's confes-
sion of unprofitable sin — the penitence of a
faithless wife deserted by her betrayer. The
letter had fallen from the pocket of Captain
Armisted ; the reader quietly transferred it to
his own.

An aide-de-camp rode up and dismounted.
Advancing to the Governor he saluted.

" Sir," he said, " I am sorry to find you
wounded — the Commanding General has not
been informed. He presents his compliments
and I am directed to say that he has ordered
for to-morrow a grand review of the reserve
corps in your honor. I venture to add that the
General's carriage is at your service if you are
able to attend."

"Be pleased to say to the Commanding
General that I am deeply touched by his kind-
ness. If you have the patience to wait a few
moments you shall convey a more definite
reply."

164 THE COLLECTED WORKS

He smiled brightly and glancing at the
surgeon and his assistants added: "At pres-
ent— if you will permit an allusion to the hor-
rors of peace — I am *in the hands of my
friends.'"

The humor of the great is infectious; all
laughed who heard.

"Where is Captain Armisted?" the Gov-
ernor asked, not altogether carelessly.

The surgeon looked up from his work,
pointing silently to the nearest body in the row
of dead, the features discreetly covered with a
handkerchief. It was so near that the great
man could have laid his hand upon it, but he
did not. He may have feared that it would
bleed.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 165

THE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE

CAPTAIN PARROL HARTROY
stood at the advanced post of his
picket-guard, talking in low tones
with the sentinel. This post was on a
turnpike which bisected the captain's camp, a
half-mile in rear, though the camp was not in
sight from that point. The officer was appar-
ently giving the soldier certain instructions —
was perhaps merely inquiring if all were quiet
in front. As the two stood talking a man
approached them from the direction of the
campj carelessly whistling, and was promptly
halted by the soldier. He was evidently a
civilian — a tall person, coarsely clad in the
home-made stuff of yellow gray, called " but-
ternut," which was men's only wear in the
latter days of the Confederacy. On his head
was a slouch felt hat, once white, from
beneath which hung masses of uneven hair,
seemingly unacquainted with either scissors or
comb. The man's face was rather striking; a
broad forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks,
the mouth invisible in the full dark beard,

166 THE COLLECTED WORKS

which seemed as neglected as the hair. The
eyes were large and had that steadiness and
fixity of attention which so frequently mark a
considering intelligence and a will not easily
turned from its purpose — so say those phys-
iognomists who have that kind of eyes. On
the whole, this was a man whom one would be
likely to observe and be observed by. He
carried a walking-stick freshly cut from the
forest and his ailing cowskin boots were white
with dust.

" Show your pass," said the Federal sol-
dier, a trifle more imperiously perhaps than
he would have thought necessary if he had not
been under the eye of his commander, who
with folded arms looked on from the road-
side.

" 'Lowed you'd rec'lect me, Gineral," said
the wayfarer tranquilly, while producing the
paper from the pocket of his coat. There was
something in his tone — perhaps a faint sug-
gestion of irony — which made his elevation of
his obstructor to exalted rank less agreeable to
that worthy warrior than promotion is com-
monly found to be. " You-all have to be purty
pertickler, I reckon," he added, in a more
conciliatory tone, as if in half-apology for
being halted.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 167

Having read the pass, with his rifle resting
on the ground, the soldier handed the docu-
ment back without a word, shouldered his
weapon, and returned to his commander. The
civilian passed on in the middle of the road,
and when he had penetrated the circumjacent
Confederacy a few yards resumed his whist-
ling and was soon out of sight beyond an
angle in the road, which at that point entered
a thin forest. Suddenly the officer undid his
arms from his breast, drew a revolver from
his belt and sprang forward at a run in the
same direction, leaving his sentinel in gaping
astonishment at his post. After making to the
various visible forms of nature a solemn
promise to be damned, that gentleman re-
sumed the air of stolidity which is supposed
to be appropriate to a state of alert military
attention.

II

Captain Hartroy held an independent com-
mand. His force consisted of a company
of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a sec-
tion of artillery, detached from the army to
which they belonged, to defend an important
defile in the Cumberland Mountains in Ten-
nessee. It was a field officer's command held
by a line officer promoted from the ranks,

168 THE COLLECTED WORKS

where he had quietly served until "discov-
ered." His post was one of exceptional peril ;
its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and
he had wisely been given corresponding dis-
cretionary powers, all the more necessary be-
cause of his distance from the main army, the
precarious nature of his communications and
the lawless character of the enemy's irregular
troops infesting that region. He had strongly
fortified his little camp, which embraced a
village of a half-dozen dwellings and a coun-
try store, and had collected a considerable
quantity of supplies. To a few resident
civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was
desirable to trade, and of whose services in
various ways he sometimes availed himself,
he had given written passes admitting them
within his lines. It is easy to understand that
an abuse of this privilege in the interest of the
enemy might entail serious consequences.
Captain Hartroy had made an order to the
effect that any one so abusing it would be
summarily shot.

While the sentinel had been examining the
civilian's pass the captain had eyed the lat-
ter narrowly. He thought his appearance
familiar and had at first no doubt of having

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 169

given him the pass which had satisfied the
sentinel. It was not until the man had got out
of sight and hearing that his identity was dis-
closed by a revealing light from memory.
With soldierly promptness of decision the
officer had acted on the revelation.

Ill

To any but a singularly self-possessed man
the apparition of an officer of the military
forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand
a sheathed sword and in the other a cocked
revolver, and rushing in furious pursuit, is
no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon
the man to whom the pursuit was in this in-
stance directed it appeared to have no other
effect than somewhat to intensify his tranquill-
ity. He might easily enough have escaped
into the forest to the right or the left, but
chose another course of action — turned and
quietly faced the captain, saying as he came
up : "I reckon ye must have something to
say to me, which ye disremembered. What
mout it be, neighbor?"

But the "neighbor" did not answer, being
engaged in the unneighborly act of covering
him with a cocked pistol.

170 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" Surrender," said the captain as calmly as
a slight breathlessness from exertion would
permit, " or you die."

There was no menace in the manner of this
demand ; that was all in the matter and in the
means of enforcing it. There was, too, some-
thing not altogether reassuring in the cold
gray eyes that glanced along the barrel of the
weapon. For a moment the two men stood
looking at each other in silence; then the
civilian, with no appearance of fear — with as
great apparent unconcern as when complying
with the less austere demand of the sentinel —
slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which
had satisfied that humble functionary and
held it out, saying:

" I reckon this 'ere parss from Mister Hart-
roy is ^"

" The pass is a forgery," the officer said, in-
terrupting. " I am Captain Hartroy — and
you are Dramer Brune."

It would have required a sharp eye to
observe the slight pallor of the civilian's face
at these words, and the only other manifesta-
tion attesting their significance was a volun-
tary relaxation of the thumb and fingers hold-
ing the dishonored paper, which, falling to
the road, unheeded, was rolled by a gentle

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 171

wind and then lay still, with a coating of dust,
as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. A
moment later the civilian, still looking un-
moved into the barrel of the pistol, said:

"Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate
spy, and your prisoner. I have on my person,
as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort
and its armament, a statement of the distribu-
tion of your men and their number, a map of
the approaches, showing the positions of all
your outposts. My life is fairly yours, but if
you wish it taken in a more formal way than
by your own hand, and if you are willing to
spare me the indignity of marching into camp
at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you
that I will neither resist, escape, nor remon-
strate, but will submit to whatever penalty
may be imposed."

The ofBcer lowered his pistol, uncocked it,
and thrust it into its place in his belt. Brune
advanced a step, extending his right hand.

" It is the hand of a traitor and a spy," said
the officer coldly, and did not take it. The
other bowed.

" Come," said the captain, " let us go to
camp; you shall not die until to-morrow
morning."

He turned his back upon his prisoner, and

172 THE COLLECTED WORKS

these two enigmatical men retraced their
steps and soon passed the sentinel, who ex-
pressed his general sense of things by a need-
less and exaggerated salute to his commander.

IV

Early on the morning after these events the
two men, captor and captive, sat in the tent
of the former. A table was between them on
which lay, among a number of letters, official
and private, which the captain had written
during the night, the incriminating papers
found upon the spy. That gentleman had
slept through the night in an adjoining tent,
unguarded. Both, having breakfasted, were
now smoking.

" Mr. Brune," said Captain Hartroy, "you
probably do not understand why I recognized
you in your disguise, nor how I was aware of
your name."

" I have not sought to learn. Captain," the
prisoner said with quiet dignity.

" Nevertheless I should like you to know —
if the story will not offend. You will perceive
that my knowledge of you goes back to the
autumn of 1861. At that time you were a
private in an Ohio regiment — a brave and
trusted soldier. To the surprise and grief of

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 173

your officers and comrades you deserted and
went over to the enemy. Soon afterward you
were captured in a skirmish, recognized, tried
by court-martial and sentenced to be shot.
Awaiting the execution of the sentence you
were confined, unfettered, in a freight car
standing on a side track of a railway."

"At Grafton, Virginia," said Brune, push-
ing the ashes from his cigar with the little
finger of the hand holding it, and without
looking up.

"At Grafton, Virginia," the captain re-
peated. " One dark and stormy night a sol-
dier who had just returned from a long, fa-
tiguing march was put on guard over you. He
sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the
door, his rifle loaded and the bayonet fixed.
You sat in a corner and his orders were to kill
you if you attempted to rise."

" But if I asked to rise he might call the
corporal of the guard."

" Yes. As the long silent hours wore away
the soldier yielded to the demands of nature :
he himself incurred the death penalty by
sleeping at his post of duty."

"You did."

" What! you recognize me? you have known
me all along?"

174 THE COLLECTED WORKS

The captain had risen and was walking the
floor of his tent, visibly excited. His face was
flushed, the gray eyes had lost the cold, piti-
less look which they had shown when Brune
had seen them over the pistol barrel ; they had
softened wonderfully.

" I knew you," said the spy, with his cus-
tomary tranquillity, " the moment you faced
me, demanding my surrender. In the circum-
stances it would have been hardly becoming
in me to recall these matters. I am perhaps a
traitor, certainly a spy; but I should not wish
to seem a suppliant."

The captain had paused in his walk and was
facing his prisoner. There was a singular
huskiness in his voice as he spoke again.

" Mr. Brune, whatever your conscience may
permit you to be, you saved my life at what
you must have believed the cost of your own.
Until I saw you yesterday when halted by my
sentinel I believed you dead — thought that
you had suffered the fate which through my
own crime you might easily have escaped.
You had only to step from the car and leave
me to take your place before the firing-squad.
You had a divine compassion. You pitied my
fatigue. You let me sleep, watched over me,
and as the time drew near for the relief -guard

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 175

to come and detect me in my crime, you gently
waked me. Ah, Brune, Brune, that was well
done — that was great — that "

The captain's voice failed him; the tears
were running down his face and sparkled
upon his beard and his breast. Resuming his
seat at the table, he buried his face in his arms
and sobbed. All else was silence.

Suddenly the clear warble of a bugle was
heard sounding the " assembly." The captain
started and raised his wet face from his arms ;
it had turned ghastly pale. Outside, in the
sunlight, were heard the stir of the men fall-
ing into line ; the voices of the sergeants call-
ing the roll; the tapping of the drummers as
they braced their drums. The captain spoke
again :

"I ought to have confessed my fault in
order to relate the story of your magnanimity;
it might have procured you a pardon. A hun-
dred times I resolved to do so, but shame pre-
vented. Besides, your sentence was just and
righteous. Well, Heaven forgive me! I said
nothing, and my regiment was soon afterward
ordered to Tennessee and I never heard about
you."

" It was all right, sir," said Brune, without
visible emotion ; " I escaped and returned to

176 THE COLLECTED WORKS

my colors — the Confederate colors. I should
like to add that before deserting from the Fed-
eral service I had earnestly asked a discharge,
on the ground of altered convictions. I was
answered by punishment."

"Ah, but if I had sufifered the penalty of
my crime — if you had not generously given
me the life that I accepted without gratitude
you would not be again in the shadow and
imminence of death."

The prisoner started slightly and a look of
anxiety came into his face. One would
have said, too, that he was surprised. At
that moment a lieutenant, the adjutant, ap-
peared at the opening of the tent and saluted.
"Captain," he said, "the battalion is
formed."

Captain Hartroy had recovered his com-
posure. He turned to the officer and said:
" Lieutenant, go to Captain Graham and say
that I direct him to assume command of the
battalion and parade it outside the parapet.
This gentleman is a deserter and a spy; he is
to be shot to death in the presence of the
troops. He will accompany you, unbound and
unguarded."

While the adjutant waited at the door the
two men inside the tent rose and exchanged

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 177

ceremonious bows, Brune immediately retir-
ing.

Half an hour later an old negro cook, the
only person left in camp except the com-
mander, was so startled by the sound of a vol-
ley of musketry that he dropped the kettle that
he was lifting from a fire. But for his con-
sternation and the hissing which the contents
of the kettle made among the embers, he might
also have heard, nearer at hand, the single
pistol shot with which Captain Hartroy re-
nounced the life which in conscience he could
no longer keep.

In compliance with the terms of a note that
he left for the officer who succeeded him in
command, he was buried, like the deserter and
spy, without military honors ; and in the sol-
emn shadow of the mountain which knows no
more of war the two sleep well in long-for-
gotten graves.

178 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ONE KIND OF OFFICER
I

OF THE USES OF CIVILITY

CAPTAIN RANSOME, it is not
permitted to you to. know anything.
It is sufBcient that you obey my
order — which permit me to repeat.
If you perceive any movement of troops in
your front you are to open fire, and if attacked
hold this position as long as you can. Do I
make myself understood, sir?"

"Nothing could be plainer. Lieutenant
Price," — this to an officer of his own battery,
who had ridden up in time to hear the order
— " the general's meaning is clear, is it not? "

" Perfectly."

The lieutenant passed on to his post. For
a moment General Cameron and the com-
mander of the battery sat in their saddles,
looking at each other in silence. There was no
more to say; apparently too much had already
been said. Then the superior officer nodded
coldly and turned his horse to ride away. The
artillerist saluted slowly, gravely, and with

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 179

extreme formality. One acquainted with the
niceties of military etiquette would have said
that by his manner he attested a sense of the
rebuke that he had incurred. It is one of the
important uses of civility to signify resent-
ment.

When the general had joined his staff and
escort, awaiting him at a little distance, the
whole cavalcade moved off toward the right
of the guns and vanished in the fog. Captain
Ransome was alone, silent, motionless as an
equestrian statue. The gray fog, thickening
every moment, closed in about him like a visi-
ble doom.

II

UNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES MEN DO NOT
WISH TO BE SHOT

The fighting of the day before had been
desultory and indecisive. At the points of
collision the smoke of battle had hung in blue
sheets among the branches of the trees till
beaten into nothing by the falling rain. In
the softened earth the wheels of cannon and
ammunition wagons cut deep, ragged furrows,
and movements of infantry seemed impeded
by the mud that clung to the soldiers' feet as.

h

180 THE COLLECTED WORKS

with soaken garments and rifles imperfectly
protected by capes of overcoats they went
dragging in sinuous lines hither and thither
through dripping forest and flooded field.
Mounted officers, their heads protruding from
rubber ponchos that glittered like black
armor, picked their way, singly and in loose
groups, among the men, coming and going
with apparent aimlessness and commanding
attention from nobody but one another. Here
and there a dead man, his clothing defiled
with earth, his face covered with a blanket or
showing yellow and claylike in the rain, added
his dispiriting influence to that of the other
dismal features of the scene and augmented
the general discomfort with a particular de-
jection. Very repulsive these wrecks looked
— not at all heroic, and nobody was accessible
to the infection of their patriotic example.
Dead upon the field of honor, yes; but the
field of honor was so very wet I It makes a
difference.

The general engagement that all expected
did not occur, none of the small advantages
accruing, now to this side and now to that, in
isolated and accidental collisions being fol-
lowed up. Half-hearted attacks provoked a
sullen resistance which was satisfied with mere

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 181

repulse. Orders were obeyed with mechanical
fidelity; no one did any more than his duty.

" The army is cowardly to-day," said Gen-
eral Cameron, the commander of a Federal
brigade, to his adjutant-general. '^

"The army is cold," replied the ofHcer
addressed, "and — yes, it doesn't wish to be
like that."

He pointed to one of the dead bodies, lying
in a thin pool of yellow water, its face and
clothing bespattered with mud from hoof and
wheel.

The army's weapons seemed to share its mil-
itary delinquency. The rattle of rifles sounded
flat and contemptible. It had no meaning
and scarcely roused to attention and expectancy
the unengaged parts of the line-of-battle and
the waiting reserves. Heard at a little dis-
tance, the reports of cannon were feeble in
volume and timbre: they lacked sting and re-
sonance. The guns seemed to be fired with
light charges, unshotted. And so the futile
day wore on to its dreary close, and then to a
night of discomfort succeeded a day of appre-
hension.

An army has a personality. Beneath the
individual thoughts and emotions of its com-
ponent parts it thinks and feels as a unit. And

182 THE COLLECTED WORKS

in this large, inclusive sense of things lies a
wiser wisdom than the mere sum of all that it
knows. On that dismal morning this great
brute force, groping at the bottom of a white
ocean of fog among trees that seemed as sea
weeds, had a dumb consciousness that all was
not well; that a day's manoeuvring had re-
sulted in a faulty disposition of its parts, a
blind diffusion of its strength. The men felt
insecure and talked among themselves of such
tactical errors as with their meager military
vocabulary they were able to name. Field
and line officers gathered in groups and spoke
more learnedly of what they apprehended
with no greater clearness. Commanders of
brigades and divisions looked anxiously to
their connections on the right and on the left,
sent staff officers on errands of inquiry and
pushed skirmish lines silently and cautiously
forward into the dubious region between the
known and the unknown. At some points on
the line the troops, apparently of their own
volition, constructed such defenses as they
could without the silent spade and the
noisy ax.

One of these points was held by Captain
Ransome's battery of six guns. Provided
always with intrenching tools, his men had

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 183

labored with diligence during the night, and
now his guns thrust their black muzzles
through the embrasures of a really formid-
able earthwork. It crowned a slight acclivity
devoid of undergrowth and providing an un-
obstructed fire that would sweep the ground
for an unknown distance in front. The posi-
tion could hardly have been better chosen.
It had this peculiarity, which Captain Ran-
some, who was greatly addicted to the use
of the compass, had not failed to observe: it
faced northward, whereas he knew that the
general line of the army must face eastward.
In fact, that part of the line was " refused " —
that is to say, bent backward, away from the
enemy. This implied that Captain Ransome's
battery was somewhere near the left flank ofi
the army; for an army in line of battle retires
its flanks if the nature of the ground will per-
mit, they being its vulnerable points. Actu-
ally, Captain Ransome appeared to hold the
extreme left of the line, no troops being visi-
ble in that direction beyond his own. Im-
mediately in rear of his guns occurred that
conversation between him and his brigade
commander, the concluding and more pictur-
esque part of which is reported above.

184 THE COLLECTED WORKS

III

HOW TO PLAY THE CANNON WITHOUT NOTES

Captain Ransome sat motionless and silent
on horseback. A few yards away his men-
were standing at their guns. Somewhere —
ever5rwhere within a few miles — ^were a hun-
dred thousand men, friends and enemies. Yet
he was alone. The mist had isolated him as
completely as if he had been in the heart of a
desert. His world was a few square yards of
wet and trampled earth about the feet of his
horse. His comrades in that ghostly domain
were invisible and inaudible. These were
conditions favorable to thought, and he was
thinking. Of the nature of his thoughts his
clear-cut handsome features yielded no attest-
ing sign. His face was as inscrutable as that
of the sphinx. Why should it have made a
record which there was none to observe? At
the sound of a footstep he merely turned hia
eyes in the direction whence it came; one of
his sergeants, looking a giant in stature in the
false perspective of the fog, approached, and
when clearly defined and reduced to his true
dimensions by propinquity, saluted and stood
at attention.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 185

"Well, Morris," said the officer, returning
his subordinate's salute.

" Lieutenant Price directed me to tell you,
sir, that most of the infantry has been with-
drawn. We have not sufficient support."

"Yes, I know."

" I am to say that some of our men have
been out over the works a hundred yards and
report that our front is not picketed."

"Yes."

" They were so far forward that they heard
the enemy."

"Yes."

"They heard the rattle of the wheels of
artillery and the commands of officers."

"Yes."

" The enemy is moving toward our works."

Captain Ransome, who had been facing to
the rear of his line — toward the point where
the brigade commander and his cavalcade had
been swallowed up by the fog — reined his
horse about and faced the other way. Then
he sat motionless as before.

"Who are the men who made that state-
ment?" he inquired, without looking at the
sergeant; his eyes were directed straight into*
the fog over the head of his horse.

"Corporal Hassman and Gunner Man-
ning."

186 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Captain Ransome was a moment silent. A
slight pallor came into his face, a slight com-
pression affected the lines of his lips, but it
would have required a closer observer than
Sergeant Morris to note the change. There
was none in the voice.

"Sergeant, present my compliments to
Lieutenant Price and direct him to open fire
with all the guns. Grape."

The sergeant saluted and vanished in the
fog.

IV

TO INTRODUCE GENERAL MASTERSON

Searching for his division commander,
General Cameron and his escort had followed
the line of battle for nearly a mile to the right
of Ransome's battery, and there learned that
the division commander had gone in search
of the corps commander. It seemed that
everybody was looking for his immediate
superior — an ominous circumstance. It
meant that nobody was quite at ease. So Gen-
eral Cameron rode on for another half-mile,
where by good luck he met General Master-
son, the division commander, returning.

"Ah, Cameron," said the higher officer,
reining up, and throwing his right leg across

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 187

the pommel of his saddle in a most unmilitary
way — "anything up? Found a good position
for your battery, I hope — if one place is better
than another in a fog."

"Yes, general," said the other, with the
greater dignity appropriate to his less exalted
rank, " my battery is very well placed. I wish
I could say that it is as well commanded."

" Eh, what's that? Ransome? I think him
a fine fellow. In the army we should be
proud of him."

It was customary for officers of the regular
army to speak of it as "the army." As the
greatest cities are most provincial, so the self-
complacency of aristocracies is most frankly
plebeian.

" He is too fond of his opinion. By the
way, in order to occupy the hill that he holds
I had to extend my line dangerously. The
hill is on my left — that is to say the left flank
of the army."

" Oh, no. Hart's brigade is beyond. It was
ordered up from Drytown during the night
and directed to hook on to you. Better go
and "

The sentence was unfinished : a lively can-
nonade had broken out on the left, and both
officers, followed by their retinues of aides and
orderlies making a great jingle and clank,

188 THE COLLECTED WORKS

rode rapidly toward the spot. But they were
soon impeded, for they were compelled by the
fog to keep within sight of the line-of-battle,
behind which were swarms of men, all in
motion across their way. Everywhere the line
was assuming a sharper and harder definition,
as the men sprang to arms and the officers,
with drawn swords, "dressed" the ranks.
Color-bearers unfurled the flags, buglers blew
the " assembly," hospital attendants appeared
with stretchers. Field officers mounted and
sent their impedimenta to the rear in care of
negro servants. Back in the ghostly spaces of
the forest could be heard the rustle and mur-
mur of the reserves, pulling themselves
together.

Nor was all this preparation vain, for
scarcely five minutes had passed since Captain
Ransome's guns had broken the truce of doubt
before the whole region was aroar : the enemy
had attacked nearly everywhere.

V

HOW SOUNDS CAN FIGHT SHADOWS

Captain Ransome walked up and down be-
hind his guns, which were firing rapidly but
with steadiness. The gunners worked alertly,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 189

but without haste or apparent excitement.
There was really no reason for excitement; it
is not much to point a cannon into a fog and
fire it. Anybody can do as much as that.

The men smiled at their noisy work, per-
forming it with a lessening alacrity. They
cast curious regards upon their captain, who
had now mounted the banquette of the fort-
ification and was looking across the parapet
as if observing the effect of his fire. But the
only visible effect was the substitution of
wide, low-lying sheets of smoke for their bulk
of fog. Suddenly out of the obscurity burst
a great sound of cheering, which filled the in-
tervals between the reports of the guns with
startling distinctness! To the few with
leisure and opportunity to observe, the sound
was inexpressibly strange — so loud, so near,
so menacing, yet nothing seen 1 The men who
had smiled at their work smiled no more, but
performed it with a serious and feverish act-
ivity.

From his station at the parapet Captain
Ransome now saw a great multitude of dim
gray figures taking shape in the mist below
him and swarming up the slope. But the
work of the guns was now fast and furious.
They swept the populous declivity with gusts

190 THE COLLECTED WORKS

of grape and canister, the whirring of which
could be heard through the thunder of the
explosions. In this awful tempest of iron the
assailants struggled forward foot by foot
across their dead, firing into the embrasures,
reloading, firing again, and at last falling in
their turn, a little in advance of those who had
fallen before. Soon the smoke was dense
enough to cover all. It settled down upon
the attack and, drifting back, involved the de-
fense. The gunners could hardly see to serve
their pieces, and when occasional figures of
the enemy appeared upon the parapet — hav-
ing had the good luck to get near enough to
it, between two embrasures, to be protected
from the guns — they looked so unsubstantial
that it seemed hardly worth while for the few
infantrymen to go to work upon them with
the bayonet and tumble them back into the
ditch.

As the commander of a battery in action
can find something better to do than cracking
individual skulls. Captain Ransome had re-
tired from the parapet to his proper post in
rear of his guns, where he stood with folded
arms, his bugler beside him. Here, during
the hottest of the fight, he was approached by
Lieutenant Price, who had just sabred a dar-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 191

ing assailant inside the work. A spirited col-
loquy ensued between the two officers —
spirited, at least, on the part of the lieutenant,
who gesticulated with energy and shouted
again and again into his commander's ear in
the attempt to make himself heard above the
infernal din of the guns. His gestures, if
coolly noted by an actor, would have been
pronounced to be those of protestation: one
would have said that he was opposed to the
proceedings. Did he wish to surrender?

Captain Ransome listened without a change
of countenance or attitude, and when the
other man had finished his harangue, looked
him coldly in the eyes and during a season-
able abatement of the uproar said:

"Lieutenant Price, it is not permitted to
you to know anything. It is sufiicient that
you obey my orders."

The lieutenant went to his post, and the
parapet being now apparently clear Captain
Ransome returned to it to have a look over.
As he mounted the banquette a man sprang
upon the crest, waving a great brilliant flag.
The captain drew a pistol from his belt and
shot him dead. The body, pitching forward,
hung over the inner edge of the embankment,
the arms straight downward, both hands still

192 THE COLLECTED WORKS

grasping the flag. The man's few followers
turned and fled down the slope. Looking
over the parapet, the captain saw no living
thing. He observed also that no bullets were
coming into the work.

He made a sign to the bugler, who sounded
the command to cease firing. At all other
points the action had already ended with a
repulse of the Confederate attack; with the
cessation of this cannonade the silence was
absolute.

VI

WHY, BEING AFFRONTED BY A, IT IS NOT BEST
TO AFFRONT B

General Masterson rode into the redoubt.
The men, gathered in groups, were talking
loudly and gesticulating. They pointed at
the dead, running from one body to another.
They neglected their foul and heated guns
and forgot to resume their outer clothing.
They ran to the parapet and looked over,
some of them leaping down into the ditch. A
score were gathered about a flag rigidly held
by a dead man.

" Well, my men," said the general cheerily,
"you have had a pretty fight of it."

They stared; nobody replied; the presence

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 193

of the great man seemed to embarrass and
alarm.

Getting no response to his pleasant con-
descension, the easy-mannered ofBcer whistled
a bar or two of a popular air, and riding for-
ward to the parapet, looked over at the dead.
In an instant he had whirled his horse about
and was spurring along in rear of the guns,
his eyes everywhere at once. An officer sat
on the trail of one of the guns, smoking a
cigar. As the general dashed up he rose and
tranquilly saluted.

"Captain Ransomel" — the words fell
sharp and harsh, like the clash of steel blades
— " you have been fighting our own men — our
own men, sir; do you hear? Hart's brig-
ade!"

" General, I know that."

" You know it — you know that, and you sit
here smoking? Oh, damn it, Hamilton, I'm
losing my temper," — this to his provost-mar-
shal. " Sir — Captain Ransome, be good
enough to say — to say why you fought our
own men."

" That I am unable to say. In my orders
that information was withheld."

Apparently the general did not compre-
hend.

194 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" Who was the aggressor in this affair, you
or General Hart?" he asked.

" I was."

"And could you not have known — could
you not see, sir, that you were attacking our
own men ? "

The reply was astounding!

" I knew that, general. It appeared to be
none of my business."

Then, breaking the dead silence that fol-
lowed his answer, he said:

" I must refer you to General Cameron."

" General Cameron is dead, sir — as dead as
he can be — as dead as any man in this army.
He lies back yonder under a tree. Do you
mean to say that he had anything to do with
this horrible business?"

Captain Ransome did not reply. Observ-
ing the altercation his men had gathered about
to watch the outcome. They were greatly ex-
cited. The fog, which had been partly dis-
sipated by the firing, had again closed in so
darkly about them that they drew more closely
together till the judge on horseback and the
accused standing calmly before him had but
a narrow space free from intrusion. It was
the most informal of courts-martial, but all
felt that the formal one to follow would but

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 195

afErm its judgment. It had no jurisdiction,
but it had the significance of prophecy.

" Captain Ransome," the general cried im-
petuously, but with something in his voice
that was almost entreaty, " if you can say any-
thing to put a better light upon your incom-
prehensible conduct I beg you will do so."

Having recovered his temper this generous
soldier sought for something to justify his nat-
urally sympathetic attitude toward a brave
man in the imminence of a dishonorable
death.

"Where is Lieutenant Price?" the captain
said.

That officer stood forward, his dark saturn-
ine face looking somewhat forbidding under
a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow.
He understood the summons and needed no
invitation to speak. He did not look at the
captain, but addressed the general :

" During the engagement I discovered the
state of affairs, and apprised the commander
of the battery. I ventured to urge that the
firing cease. I was insulted and ordered to
my post."

" Do you know anything of the orders un-
der which I was acting? " asked the captain.

"Of any orders under which the com-

196 THE COLLECTED WORKS

mander of the battery was acting," the lieu-
tenant continued, still addressing the general,
" I know nothing."

Captain Ransome felt his world sink away
from his feet. In those cruel words he heard
the murmur of the centuries breaking upon
the shore of eternity. He heard the voice of
doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and
measured tones: "Ready, aim, fire I" and he
felt the bullets tear his heart to shreds. He
heard the sound of the earth upon his cofEn
and (if the good God was so merciful) the
song of a bird above his forgotten grave.
Quietly detaching his sabre from its supports,
he handed it up to the provost-marshal.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 197

ONE OFFICER, ONE MAN

CAPTAIN GRAFFENREID stood
at the head of his company. The
regiment was not engaged. It formed
a part of the front line-of-battle,
which stretched away to the right with a visi-
ble length of nearly two miles through the open
ground. The left flank was veiled by woods ;
to the right also the line was lost to sight, but
it extended many miles. A hundred yards in
rear was a second line; behind this, the re-
serve brigades and divisions in column. Bat-
teries of artillery occupied the spaces between
and crowned the low hills. Groups of horse-
men— generals with their staffs and escorts,
and field officers of regiments behind the
colors — broke the regularity of the lines and
columns. Numbers of these figures of inter-
est had field-glasses at their eyes and sat
motionless, stolidly scanning the country in
front; others came and went at a slow canter,
bearing orders. There were squads of
stretcher-bearers, ambulances, wagon-trains
with ammunition, and officers' servants in rear
of all — of all that was visible — for still in rear

198 THE COLLECTED WORKS

of these, along the roads, extended for many
miles all that vast multitude of non-combat-
ants who with their various impedimenta are
assigned to the inglorious but important duty
of supplying the fighters' many needs.

An army in line-of-battle awaiting attack,
or prepared to deliver it, presents strange con-
trasts. At the front are precision, formality,
fixity, and silence. Toward the rear these
characteristics are less and less conspicuous,
and finally, in point of space, are lost alto-
gether in confusion, motion and noise. The
homogeneous becomes heterogeneous. De-
finition is lacking; repose is replaced by an
apparently purposeless activity; harmony
vanishes in hubbub, form in disorder. Com-
motion ever5^where and ceaseless unrest. The
men who do not fight are never ready.

From his position at the right of his com-
pany in the front rank. Captain Graffenreid
had an unobstructed outlook toward the
enemy. A half-mile of open and nearly level
ground lay before him, and beyond it an ir-
regular wood, covering a slight acclivity; not
a human being anywhere visible. He could
imagine nothing more peaceful than the ap-
pearance of that pleasant landscape with its
long stretches of brown fields over which the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 199

atmosphere was beginning to quiver in the
heat of the morning sun. Not a sound came
from forest or field — not even the barking of
a dog or the crowing of a cock at the half-seen
plantation house on the crest among the trees.
Yet every man in those miles of men knew
that he and death were face to face.

Captain Graffenreid had never in his life
seen an armed enemy, and the war in which
his regiment was one of the first to take the
field was two years old. He had had the
rare advantage of a military education, and
when his comrades had marched to the front
he had been detached for administrative serv-
ice at the capital of his State, where it was
thought that he could be most useful. Like a
bad soldier he protested, and like a good one
obeyed. In close official and personal rela-
tions with the governor of his State, and en-
joying his confidence and favor, he had firmly
refused promotion and seen his juniors elev-
ated above him. Death had been busy in
his distant regiment; vacancies among the
field officers had occurred again and again;
but from a chivalrous feeling that war's re-
wards belonged of right to those who bore the
storm and stress of battle he had held his
humble rank and generously advanced the

200 THE COLLECTED WORKS

fortunes of others. His silent devotion to
principle had conquered at last: he had been
relieved of his hateful duties and ordered to
the front, and now, untried by fire, stood in
the van of battle in command of a company
of hardy veterans, to whom he had been only
a name, and that name a by-word. By none
— not even by those of his brother officers in
whose favor he had waived his rights — was
his devotion to duty understood. They were
too busy to be just; he was looked upon as one
who had shirked his duty, until forced unwill-
ingly into the field. Too proud to explain,
yet not too insensible to feel, he could only
endure and hope.

Of all the Federal Army on that summer
morning none had accepted battle more joy-
ously than Anderton Graffenreid. His spirit
was buoyant, his faculties were riotous. He
was in a state of mental exaltation and
scarcely could endure the enemy's tardiness in
advancing to the attack. To him this was op-
portunity— for the result he cared nothing.
Victory or defeat, as God might will ; in one
or in the other he should prove himself a
soldier and a hero; he should vindicate his
right to the respect of his men and the com-
panionship of his brother officers — to the con-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 201

sideration of his superiors. How his heart
leaped in his breast as the bugle sounded the
stirring notes of the " assembly"! With what
a light tread, scarcely conscious of the earth
beneath his feet, he strode forward at the head
of his company, and how exultingly he noted
the tactical dispositions which placed his regi-
ment in the front line! And if perchance
some memory came to him of a pair of dark
eyes that might take on a tenderer light in
reading the account of that day's doings, who
shall blame him for the unmartial thought or
count it a debasement of soldierly ardor?

Suddenly, from the forest a half-mile in
front — apparently from among the upper
branches of the trees, but really from the
ridge beyond — rose a tall column of white
smoke. A moment later came a deep, jarring
explosion, followed — almost attended — by a
hideous rushing sound that seemed to leap
forward across the intervening space with in-
conceivable rapidity, rising from whisper to
roar with too quick a gradation for attention
to note the successive stages of its horrible
progression! A visible tremor ran along the
lines of men; all were startled into motion.
Captain Graffenreid dodged and threw up his
hands to one side of his head, palms outward.

202 THE COLLECTED WORKS

As he did so he heard a keen, ringing report,
and saw on a hillside behind the line a fierce
roll of smoke and dust — the shell's explosion.
It had passed a hundred feet to his left! He
heard, or fancied he heard, a low, mocking
laugh and turning in the direction whence it
came saw the eyes of his first lieutenant fixed
upon him with an unmistakable look of
amusement. He looked along the line of
faces in the front ranks. The men were
laughing. At him? The thought restored
the color to his bloodless face — restored too
much of it. His cheeks burned with a fever
of shame.

The enemy's shot was not answered : the of-
ficer in command at that exposed part of the
line had evidently no desire to provoke a can-
nonade. For the forbearance Captain Graf-
fenreid was conscious of a sense of gratitude.
He had not known that the flight of a pro-
jectile was a phenomenon of so appalling
character. His conception of war had al-
ready undergone a profound change, and he
was conscious that his new feeling was mani-
festing itself in visible perturbation. His
blood was boiling in his veins; he had a chok-
ing sensation and felt that if he had a com-
mand to give it would be inaudible, or at least

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 203

unintelligible. The hand in which he held
his sword trembled ; the other moved automat-
ically, clutching at various parts of his cloth-
ing. He found a difficulty in standing still
and fancied that his men observed it. Was it
fear? He feared it was.

From somewhere away to the right came,
as the wind served, a low, intermittent mur-
mur like that of ocean in a storm — like that
of a distant railway train — like that of wind
among the pines — three sounds so nearly alike
that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot
distinguish them one from another. The eyes
of the troops were drawn in that direction;
the mounted officers turned their field-glasses
that way. Mingled with the sound was an ir-
regular throbbing. He thought it, at first,
the beating of his fevered blood in his ears;
next, the distant tapping of a bass drum.

"The ball is opened on the right flank,"
said an officer.

Captain Graffenreid understood: the
sounds were musketry and artillery. He
nodded and tried to smile. There was ap-
parently nothing infectious in the smile.

Presently a light line of blue smoke-puffs
broke out along the edge of the wood in front,
succeeded by a crackle of rifles. There were

204 THE COLLECTED WORKS

keen, sharp hissings in the air, terminating
abruptly with a thump near by. The man at
Captain Graffenreid's side dropped his rifle;
his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly
forward, falling upon his face. Somebody
shouted " Lie down ! " and the dead man was
hardly distinguishable from the living. It
looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten
thousand men. Only the field officers re-
mained erect; their concession to the emer-
gency consisted in dismounting and sending
their horses to the shelter of the low hills im-
mediately in rear.

Captain Graffenreid lay alongside the dead
man, from beneath whose breast flowed a little
rill of blood. It had a faint, sweetish odor
that sickened him. The face was crushed
into the earth and flattened. It looked yellow
already, and was repulsive. Nothing sug-
gested the glory of a soldier's death nor miti-
gated the loathsomeness of the incident. He
could not turn his back upon the body without
facing away from his company.

He fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all
again was silent. He tried to imagine what
was going on there — the lines of troops form-
ing to attack, the guns being pushed forward
by hand to the edge of the open. He fancied

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 205

he could see their black muzzles protruding
from the undergrowth, ready to deliver their
storm of missiles — such missiles as the one
whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves. The
distension of his eyes became painful; a mist
seemed to gather before them; he could no
longer see across the field, yet would not with-
draw his gaze lest he see the dead man at his
side.

The fire of battle was not now burning very
brightly in this warrior's soul. From inac-
tion had come introspection. He sought
rather to analyze his feelings than distinguish
himself by courage and devotion. The result
was profoundly disappointing. He cov-
ered his face with his hands and groaned
aloud.

The hoarse murmur of battle grew more
and more distinct upon the right; the murmur
had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a
thunder. The sounds had worked round
obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy's
left was being driven back, and the propitious
moment to move against the salient angle of
his line would soon arrive. The silence and
mystery in front were ominous; all felt that
they boded evil to the assailants.

Behind the prostrate lines sounded the hoof-

206 THE COLLECTED WORKS

beats of galloping horses; the men turned to
look. A dozen staff officers were riding to
the various brigade and regimental com-
manders, who had remounted. A moment
more and there was a chorus of voices, all ut-
tering out of time the same words — "Atten-
tion, battalion!" The men sprang to their
feet and were aligned by the company com-
manders. They awaited the word " for-
ward " — awaited, too, with beating hearts and
set teeth the gusts of lead and iron that were
to smite them at their first movement in obedi-
ence to that word. The word was not given ;
the tempest did not break out. The delay was
hideous, maddening! It unnerved like a
respite at the guillotine.

Captain Graffenreid stood at the head of
his company, the dead man at his feet. He
heard the battle on the right — rattle and crash
of musketry, ceaseless thunder of cannon,
desultory cheers of invisible combatants. He
marked ascending clouds of smoke from dis-
tant forests. He noted the sinister silence of
the forest in front. These contrasting ex-
tremes affected the whole range of his sensi-
bilities. The strain upon his nervous organ-
ization was insupportable. He grew hot and
cold by turns. He panted like a dog, and

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 207

then forgot to breathe until reminded by
vertigo.

Suddenly he grew calm. Glancing down-
ward, his eyes had fallen upon his naked
sword, as he held it, point to earth. Fore-
shortened to his view, it resembled somewhat,
he thought, the short heavy blade of the
ancient Roman. The fancy was full of sug-
gestion, malign, fateful, heroic 1

The sergeant in the rear rank, immediately
behind Captain Graffenreid, now observed a
strange sight. His attention drawn by an un-
common movement made by the captain — a
sudden reaching forward of the hands and
their energetic withdrawal, throwing the
elbows out, as in pulling an oar — he saw
spring from between the officer's shoulders a
bright point of metal which prolonged itself
outward, nearly a half-arm's length — a blade!
It was faintly streaked with crimson, and its
point approached so near to the sergeant's
breast, and with so quick a movement, that he
shrank backward in alarm. That moment
Captain Graffenreid pitched heavily forward
upon the dead man and died.

A week later the major-general command-
ing the left corps of the Federal Army sub-
mitted the following official report:

208 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" Sir: I have the honor to report, with re-
gard to the action of the 19th inst., that owing
to the enemy's withdrawal from my front to
reinforce his beaten left, my command was
not seriously engaged. My loss was as fol-
lows: Killed, one officer, one man."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 209
GEORGE THURSTON

THREE INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A MAN

GEORGE THURSTON was a first
lieutenant and aide-de-camp on the
staff of Colonel B rough, command-
ing a Federal brigade. Colonel
B rough was only temporarily in command, as
senior colonel, the brigadier-general having
been severely wounded and granted a leave of
absence to recover. Lieutenant Thurston
was, I believe, of Colonel B rough's regiment,
to which, with his chief, he would naturally
have been relegated had he lived till our
brigade commander's recovery. The aide
whose place Thurston took had been killed in
battle; Thurston's advent among us was the
only change in the personnel of our staff con-
sequent upon the change in commanders.
We did not like him; he was unsocial. This,
however, was more observed by others than
by me. Whether in camp or on the march,
in barracks, in tents, or en bivouac, my duties
as topographical engineer kept me working
like a beaver — all day in the saddle and half

210 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the night at my drawing-table, platting my
surveys. It was hazardous work; the nearer
to the enemy's lines I could penetrate, the
more valuable were my field notes and the re-
sulting maps. It was a business in which the
lives of men counted as nothing against the
chance of defining a road or sketching a
bridge. Whole squadrons of cavalry escort
had sometimes to be sent thundering against a
powerful infantry outpost in order that the
brief time between the charge and the in-
evitable retreat might be utilized in sounding
a ford or determining the point of intersection
of two roads.

In some of the dark corners of England and
Wales they have an immemorial custom of
"beating the bounds" of the parish. On a
certain day of the year the whole population
turns out and travels in procession from one
landmark to another on the boundary line.
At the most important points lads are soundly
beaten with rods to make them remember the
place in after life. They become authorities.
Our frequent engagements with the Con-
federate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties
had, incidentally, the same educating value;
they fixed in my memory a vivid and appar-
ently imperishable picture of the locality — a

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 211

picture serving instead of accurate field notes,
which, indeed, it was not always convenient to
take, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing,
and horses plunging all about. These
spirited encounters were observations entered
in red.

One morning as I set out at the head of my
escort on an expedition of more than the usual
hazard Lieutenant Thurston rode up along-
side and asked if I had any objection to his
accompanying me, the colonel commanding
having given him permission.

"None whatever," I replied rather gruffly;
" but in what capacity will you go? You are
not a topographical engineer, and Captain
Burling commands my escort."

"I will go as a spectator," he said. Re-
moving his sword-belt and taking the pistols
from his holsters he handed them to his serv-
ant, who took them back to headquarters. I
realized the brutality of my remark, but not
clearly seeing my way to an apology, said
nothing.

That afternoon we encountered a whole
regiment of the enemy's cavalry in line and a
field-piece that dominated a straight mile of
the turnpike by which we had approached.
My escort fought deployed in the woods on

212 THE COLLECTED WORKS

both sides, but Thurston remained in the cen-
ter of the road, which at intervals of a few sec-
onds was swept by gusts of grape and canister
that tore the air wide open as they passed.
He had dropped the rein on the neck of his
horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with
folded arms. Soon he was down, his horse
torn to pieces. From the side of the road, my
pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten,
I watched him slowly disengaging himself
from the wreck and rising. At that instant,
the cannon having ceased firing, a burly Con-
federate trooper on a spirited horse dashed
like a thunderbolt down the road with drawn
saber. Thurston saw him coming, drew him-
self up to his full height, and again folded
his arms. He was too brave to retreat before
the word, and my uncivil words had disarmed
him. He was a spectator. Another moment
and he would have been split like a mackerel,
but a blessed bullet tumbled his assailant into
the dusty road so near that the impetus sent
the body rolling to Thurston's feet. That
evening, while platting my hasty survey, I
found time to frame an apology, which I
think took the rude, primitive form of a con-
fession that I had spoken like a malicious
idiot.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 213

A few weeks later a part of our army made
an assault upon the enemy's left. The attack,
which was made upon an unknown position
and across unfamiliar ground, was led by our
brigade. The ground was so broken and the
underbrush so thick that all mounted officers
and men were compelled to fight on foot — the
brigade commander and his staff included. In
the melee Thurston was parted from the rest
of us, and we found him, horribly wounded,
only when we had taken the enemy's last de-
fense. He was some months in hospital at
Nashville, Tennessee, but finally rejoined us.
He said little about his misadventure, except
that he had been bewildered and had strayed
into the enemy's lines and been shot down ; but
from one of his captors, whom we in turn had
captured, we learned the particulars. " He
came walking right upon us as we lay in line,"
said this man. " A whole company of us in-
stantly sprang up and leveled our rifles at his
breast, some of them almost touching him.
* Throw down that sword and surrender, you
damned Yank!' shouted some one in author-
ity. The fellow ran his eyes along the line of
rifle barrels, folded his arms across his breast,
his right hand still clutching his sword, and
deliberately replied, * I will not.' If we had

214 THE COLLECTED WORKS

all fired he would have been torn to shreds.
Some of us didn't. I didn't, for one; nothing
could have induced me."

When one is tranquilly looking death in the
eye and refusing him any concession one
naturally has a good opinion of one's self. I
don't know if it was this feeling that in Thurs-
ton found expression in a stiffish attitude and
folded arms ; at the mess table one day, in his
absence, another explanation was suggested by
our quartermaster, an irreclaimable stam-
merer when the wine was in : " It's h — is
w — ay of m-m-mastering a c-c-consti-t-tu-
tional t-tendency to r — un aw — ay."

"What!" I flamed out, indignantly rising;
"you intimate that Thurston is a coward —
and in his absence?"

" If he w — ere a cow — wow-ard h — e
w — wouldn't t-try to m-m-master it; and if he
w — ere p-p resent I w — wouldn't d-d-dare to
d-d-discuss it," was the mollifying reply.

This intrepid man, George Thurston, died
an ignoble death. The brigade was in camp,
with headquarters in a grove of immense trees.
To an upper branch of one of these a venture-
some climber had attached the two ends of a
long rope and made a swing with a length of
not less than one hundred feet. Plunging

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 215

downward from a height of fifty feet, along
the arc of a circle with such a radius, soaring
to an equal altitude, pausing for one breath-
less instant, then sweeping dizzily backward
— no one who has not tried it can conceive the
terrors of such sport to the novice. Thurston
came out of his tent one day and asked for in-
struction in the mystery of propelling the
swing — the art of rising and sitting, which
every boy has mastered. In a few moments
he had acquired the trick and was swinging
higher than the most experienced of us had
dared. We shuddered to look at his fearful
flights.

" St-t-top him," said the quartermaster,
snailing lazily along from the mess-tent,
where he had been lunching; " h — e d-doesn't
know that if h — e g-g-goes c-clear over h — e'll
w — ind up the sw — ing."

With such energy was that strong man can-
nonading himself through the air that at each
extremity of his increasing arc his body,
standing in the swing, was almost horizontal.
Should he once pass above the level of the
rope's attachment he would be lost; the rope
would slacken and he would fall vertically to
a point as far below as he had gone above,
and then the sudden tension of the rope would

216 THE COLLECTED WORKS

wrest it from his hands. All saw the peril —
all cried out to him to desist, and gesticulated
at him as, indistinct and with a noise like the
rush of a cannon shot in flight, he swept past
us through the lower reaches of his hideous
oscillation. A woman standing at a little dis-
tance away fainted and fell unobserved.
Men from the camp of a regiment near by ran
in crowds to see, all shouting. Suddenly, as
Thurston was on his upward curve, the shouts
all ceased.

Thurston and the swing had parted — that is
all that can be known; both hands at once
had released the rope. The impetus of the
light swing exhausted, it was falling back;
the man's momentum was carrying him, al-
most erect, upward and forward, no longer in
his arc, but with an outward curve. It could
have been but an instant, yet it seemed an age.
I cried out, or thought I cried out: "My
God! will he never stop going up?" He
passed close to the branch of a tree. I re-
member a feeling of delight as I thought he
would clutch it and save himself. I specu-
lated on the possibility of it sustaining his
weight. He passed above it, and from my
point of view was sharply outlined against the
blue. At this distance of many years I can

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 217

distinctly recall that image of a man in the
sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its
hands — I do not see its hands. All at once,
with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it
turns clear over and pitches downward.
There is another cry from the crowd, which
has rushed instinctively forward. The man
has become merely a whirling object, mostly
legs. Then there is an indescribable sound —
the sound of an impact that shakes the earth,
and these men, familiar with death in its most
awful aspects, turn sick. Many walk un-
steadily away from the spot; others support
themselves against the trunks of trees or sit at
the roots. Death has taken an unfair advant-
age ; he has struck with an unfamiliar weapon ;
he has executed a new and disquieting strata-
gem. We did not know that he had so ghastly
resources, possibilities of terror so dismal.

Thurston's body lay on its back. One leg,,
bent beneath, was broken above the knee and
the bone driven into the earth. The abdomen
had burst; the bowels protruded. The neck
was broken.

The arms were folded tightly across the
breast.

218 THE COLLECTED WORKS

THE MOCKING-BIRD

THE time, a pleasant Sunday after-
noon in the early autumn of 1861.
The place, a forest's heart in the
mountain region of southwestern
Virginia. Private Grayrock of the Federal
Army is discovered seated comfortably at the
root of a great pine tree, against which he
leans, his legs extended straight along the
ground, his rifle lying across his thighs, his
hands (clasped in order that they may not fall
away to his sides) resting upon the barrel of
the weapon. The contact of the back of his
head with the tree has pushed his cap down-
ward over his eyes, almost concealing them;
one seeing him would say that he slept.

Private Grayrock did not sleep; to have
done so would have imperiled the interests of
the United States, for he was a long way out-
side the lines and subject to capture or death
at the hands of the enemy. Moreover, he was
in a frame of mind unfavorable to repose.
The cause of his perturbation of spirit was
this : during the previous night he had served
on the picket-guard, and had been posted as a

OF AMBEOSE BIERCE 219

sentinel in this very forest. The night was
clear, though moonless, but in the gloom of
the wood the darkness was deep. Grayrock's
post was at a considerable distance from those
to right and left, for the pickets had been
thrown out a needless distance from the camp,
making the line too long for the force detailed
to occupy it. The war was young, and
military camps entertained the error that
while sleeping they were better protected by
thin lines a long way out toward the enemy
than by thicker ones close in. And surely
they needed as long notice as possible of an
enemy's approach, for they were at that time
addicted to the practice of undressing — than
which nothing could be more unsoldierly.
On the morning of the memorable 6th of
April, at Shiloh, many of Grant's men when
spitted on Confederate bayonets were as naked
as civilians ; but it should be allowed that this
was not because of any defect in their picket
line. Their error was of another sort: they
had no pickets. This is perhaps a vain
digression. I should not care to undertake to
interest the reader in the fate of an army;
what we have here to consider is that of Pri-
vate Gray rock.

For two hours after he had been left at his

220 THE COLLECTED WORKS .

lonely post that Saturday night he stood stock-
still, leaning against the trunk of a large tree,
staring into the darkness in his front and try-
ing to recognize known objects; for he had
been posted at the same spot during the day.
But all was now different; he saw nothing in
detail, but only groups of things, whose
shapes, not observed when there was some-
thing more of them to observe, were now
unfamiliar. They seemed not to have been
there before. A landscape that is all trees and
undergrowth, moreover, lacks definition, is
confused and without accentuated points upon
which attention can gain a foothold. Add the
gloom of a moonless night, and something
more than great natural intelligence and a city
education is required to preserve one's know-
ledge of direction. And that is how it oc-
curred that Private Grayrock, after vigilantly
watching the spaces in his front and then
imprudently executing a circumspection of
his whole dimly visible environment (silently
walking around his tree to accomplish it) lost
his bearings and seriously impaired his use-
fulness as a sentinel. Lost at his post — unable
to say in which direction to look for an
enemy's approach, and in which lay the sleep-
ing camp for whose security he was account-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 221

able with his life — conscious, too, of many
another awkward feature of the situation and
of considerations affecting his own safety.
Private Grayrock was profoundly disquieted.
Nor was he given time to recover his tran-
quillity, for almost at the moment that he
realized his awkward predicament he heard a
stir of leaves and a snap of fallen twigs, and
turning with a stilled heart in the direction
whence it came, saw in the gloom the indis-
tinct outlines of a human figure.

"Halt!" shouted Private Grayrock, per-
emptorily as in duty bound, backing up the
command with the sharp metallic snap of his
cocking rifle — "who goes there?"

There was no answer; at least there was an
instant's hesitation, and the answer, if it came,
was lost in the report of the sentinel's rifle. In
the silence of the night and the forest the
sound was deafening, and hardly had it died
away when it was repeated by the pieces
of the pickets to right and left, a sym-
pathetic fusillade. For two hours every un-
converted civilian of them had been evolving
enemies from his imagination, and peopling
the woods in his front with them, and Gray-
rock's shot had started the whole encroaching
host into visible existence. Having fired, all

222 THE COLLECTED WORKS

retreated, breathless, to the reserves — all but
Grayrock, who did not know in what direc-
tion to retreat. When, no enemy appearing,
the roused camp two miles away had un-
dressed and got itself into bed again, and the
picket line was cautiously re-established, he
was discovered bravely holding his ground,
and was complimented by the officer of the
guard as the one soldier of that devoted band
who could rightly be considered the moral
equivalent of that uncommon unit of value,
" a whoop in hell."

In the mean time, however, Grayrock had
made a close but unavailing search for the
mortal part of the intruder at whom he had
fired, and whom he had a marksman's in-
tuitive sense of having hit ; for he was one of
those born experts who shoot without aim by
an instinctive sense of direction, and are
nearly as dangerous by night as by day. Dur-
ing a full half of his twenty-four years he had
been a terror to the targets of all the shooting-
galleries in three cities. Unable now to pro-
duce his dead game he had the discretion to
hold his tongue, and was glad to observe in
his officer and comrades the natural assump-
tion that not having run away he had seen
nothing hostile. His "honorable mention"

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 223

had been earned by not running away any-
how.

Nevertheless, Private Grayrock was far
from satisfied with the night's adventure, and
when the next day he made some fair enough
pretext to apply for a pass to go outside the
lines, and the general commanding promptly
granted it in recognition of his bravery the
night before, he passed out at the point where
that had been displayed. Telling the sentinel
then on duty there that he had lost something,
— which was true enough — he renewed the
search for the person whom he supposed
himself to have shot, and whom if only
wounded he hoped to trail by the blood.
He was no more successful by day-
light than he had been in the darkness, and
after covering a wide area and boldly pene-
trating a long distance into " the Confed-
eracy" he gave up the search, somewhat
fatigued, seated himself at the root of the
great pine tree, where we have seen him, and
indulged his disappointment.

It is not to be inferred that Grayrock's was
the chagrin of a cruel nature balked of its
bloody deed. In the clear large eyes, finely
wrought lips, and broad forehead of that
young man one could read quite another story,

224 THE COLLECTED WORKS

and in point of fact his character was a singu-
larly felicitous compound of boldness and
sensibility, courage and conscience.

" I find myself disappointed," he said to
himself, sitting there at the bottom of the
golden haze submerging the forest like a
subtler sea — " disappointed in failing to dis-
cover a fellow-man dead by my hand! Do I
then really wish that I had taken life in the
performance of a duty as well performed
without? What more could I wish? If any
danger threatened, my shot averted it; that is
what I was there to do. No, I am glad indeed
if no human life was needlessly extinguished
by me. But I am in a false position. I have
suffered myself to be complimented by my
officers and envied by my comrades. The
camp is ringing with praise of my courage.
That is not just; I know myself courageous,
but this praise is for specific acts which I did
not perform, or performed — otherwise. It is
believed that I remained at my post bravely,
without firing, whereas it was I who began
the fusillade, and I did not retreat in the gen-
eral alarm because bewildered. What, then,
shall I do? Explain that I saw an enemy and
fired? They have all said that of themselves,
yet none believes it. Shall I tell a truth

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 225

which, discrediting my courage, will have the
effect of a lie? Ugh! it is an ugly business
altogether. I wish to God I could find my
man!"

And so wishing, Private Grayrock, over-
come at last by the languor of the afternoon
and lulled by the stilly sounds of insects dron-
ing and prosing in certain fragrant shrubs, so
far forgot the interests of the United States
as to fall asleep and expose himself to capture.
And sleeping he dreamed.

He thought himself a boy, living in a far,
fair land by the border of a great river upon
which the tall steamboats moved grandly up
and down beneath their towering evolutions
of black smoke, which announced them long
before they had rounded the bends and
marked their movements when miles out of
sight. With him always, at his side as he
watched them, was one to whom he gave his
heart and soul in love — a twin brother. To-
gether they strolled along the banks of the
stream; together explored the fields lying
farther away from it, and gathered pungent
mints and sticks of fragrant sassafras in the
hills overlooking all — beyond which lay the
Realm of Conjecture, and from which, look-
ing southward across the great river, they

226 THE COLLECTED WORKS

caught glimpses of the Enchanted Land.
Hand in hand and heart in heart they two, the
only children of a widowed mother, walked
in paths of light through valleys of peace,
seeing new things under a new sun. And
through all the golden days floated one un-
ceasing sound — the rich, thrilling melody of
a mocking-bird in a cage by the cottage door.
It pervaded and possessed all the spiritual in-
tervals of the dream, like a musical benedic-
tion. The joyous bird was always in song;
its infinitely various notes seemed to flow from
its throat, effortless, in bubbles and rills at
each heart-beat, like the waters of a pulsing
spring. That fresh, clear melody seemed, in-
deed, the spirit of the scene, the meaning and
interpretation to sense of the mysteries of life
and love.

But there came a time when the days of the
dream grew dark with sorrow in a rain of
tears. The good mother was dead, the
meadowside home by the great river was
broken up, and the brothers were parted be-
tween two of their kinsmen. William (the
dreamer) went to live in a populous city in the
Realm of Conjecture, and John, crossing the
river into the Enchanted Land, was taken to
a distant region whose people in their lives

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 227

and ways were said to be strange and wicked.
To him, in the distribution of the dead
mother's estate, had fallen all that they
deemed of value — the mocking-bird. They
could be divided, but it could not, so it
was carried away into the strange country,
and the world of William knew it no more
forever. Yet still through the aftertime of
his loneliness its song filled all the dream, and
seemed always sounding in his ear and in his
heart.

The kinsmen who had adopted the boys
were enemies, holding no communication.
For a time letters full of boyish bravado and
boastful narratives of the new and larger ex-
perience— grotesque descriptions of their
widening lives and the new worlds they had
conquered — passed between them; but these
gradually became less frequent, and with Wil-
liam's removal to another and greater city
ceased altogether. But ever through it all ran
the song of the mocking-bird, and when the
dreamer opened his eyes and stared through
the vistas of the pine forest the cessation of its
music first apprised him that he was awake.

The sun was low and red in the west; the
level rays projected from the trunk of each
giant pine a wall of shadow traversing the

228 THE COLLECTED WORKS

golden haze to eastward until light and shade
were blended in undistinguishable blue.

Private Grayrock rose to his feet, looked
cautiously about him, shouldered his rifle and
set off toward camp. He had gone perhaps
a half-mile, and was passing a thicket of
laurel, when a bird rose from the midst of it
and perching on the branch of a tree above,
poured from its joyous breast so inexhaustible
floods of song as but one of all God's creatures
can utter in His praise. There was little in
that — it was only to open the bill and breathe;
yet the man stopped as if struck — stopped and
let fall his rifle, looked upward at the bird,
covered his eyes with his hands and wept like
a child I For the moment he was, indeed, a
child, in spirit and in memory, dwelling again
by the great river, over-against the Enchanted
Land! Then with an effort of the will ho
pulled himself together, picked up his weapon
and audibly damning himself for an idiot
strode on. Passing an opening that reached
into the heart of the little thicket he looked in,
and there, supine upon the earth, its arms all
abroad, its gray uniform stained with a single
spot of blood upon the breast, its white face
turned sharply upward and backward, lay the
image of himself I — the body of John Gray-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 229

rock, dead of a gunshot wound, and still
warm! He had found his man.

As the unfortunate soldier knelt beside that
masterwork of civil war the shrilling bird
upon the bough overhead stilled her song and,
flushed with sunset's crimson glory, glided
silently away through the solemn spaces of the
wood. At roll-call that evening in the Fed-
eral camp the name William Grayrock
brought no response, nor ever again there-
after.

I

CIVILIANS

THE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE

tA T the intersection of two certain
/% streets in that part of San Francisco
/ ^ known by the rather loosely applied
name of North Beach, is a vacant
lot, which is rather more nearly level than is
usually the case with lots, vacant or otherwise,
in that region. Immediately at the back of it,
to the south, however, the ground slopes
steeply upward, the acclivity broken by three
terraces cut into the soft rock. It is a place
for goats and poor persons, several families of
each class having occupied it jointly and
amicably " from the foundation of the city."
One of the humble habitations of the lowest
terrace is noticeable for its rude resemblance
to the human face, or rather to such a simula-
crum of it as a boy might cut out of a hol-
lowed pumpkin, meaning no offense to his
race. The eyes are two circular windows, the
nose is a door, the mouth an aperture caused
by removal of a board below. There are no
doorsteps. As a face, this house is too large;
as a dwelling, too small. The blank, unmean-

234 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ing stare of its Hdless and browless eyes is
uncanny.

Sometimes a man steps out of the nose,
turns, passes the place where the right ear
should be and making his way through the
throng of children and goats obstructing the
narrow walk between his neighbors' doors and
the edge of the terrace gains the street by de-
scending a flight of rickety stairs. Here he
pauses to consult his watch and the stranger
who happens to pass wonders why such a man
as that can care what is the hour. Longer
observations would show that the time of day
is an important element in the man's move-
ments, for it is at precisely two o'clock in the
afternoon that he comes forth 365 times in
every year.

Having satisfied himself that he has made
no mistake in the hour he replaces the watch
and walks rapidly southward up the street two
squares, turns to the right and as he ap-
proaches the next corner fixes his eyes on an
upper window in a three-story building across
the way. This is a somewhat dingy structure,
originally of red brick and now gray. It
shows the touch of age and dust. Built for a
dwelling, it is now a factory. I do not know
what is made there; the things that are com-

J

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 235

monly made in a factory, I suppose. I only
know that at two o'clock in the afternoon of
every day but Sunday it is full of activity and
clatter; pulsations of some great engine shake
it and there are recurrent screams of wood tor-
mented by the saw. At the window on which
the man fixes an intensely expectant gaze no-
thing ever appears ; the glass, in truth, has such
a coating of dust that it has long ceased to be
transparent. The man looks at it without
stopping; he merely keeps turning his head
more and more backward as he leaves the
building behind. Passing along to the next
corner, he turns to the left, goes round the
block, and comes back till he reaches the point
diagonally across the street from the factory —
a point on his former course, which he then
retraces, looking frequently backward over his
right shoulder at the window while it is in
sight. For many years he has not been known
to vary his route nor to introduce a single in-
novation into his action. In a quarter of an
hour he is again at the mouth of his dwelling,
and a woman, who has for some time been
standing in the nose, assists him to enter. He
is seen no more until two o'clock the next day.
The woman is his wife. She supports her-
self and him by washing for the poor people

236 THE COLLECTED WORKS

among whom they live, at rates which destroy
Chinese and domestic competition.

This man is about fifty-seven years of age,
though he looks greatly older. His hair is
dead white. He wears no beard, and is always
newly shaven. His hands are clean, his nails
well kept. In the matter of dress he is dis-
tinctly superior to his position, as indicated by
his surroundings and the business of his wife.
He is, indeed, very neatly, if not quite fash-
ionably, clad. His silk hat has a date no
earlier than the year before the last, and his
boots, scrupulously polished, are innocent of
patches. I am told that the suit which he
wears during his daily excursions of fifteen
minutes is not the one that he wears at home.
Like everything else that he has, this is pro-
vided and kept in repair by the wife, and is
renewed as frequently as her scanty means
permit.

Thirty years ago John Hardshaw and his
wife lived on Rincon Hill in one of the finest
residences of that once aristocratic quarter.
He had once been a physician, but having in-
herited a considerable estate from his father
concerned himself no more about the ailments
of his fellow-creatures and found as much

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 237

work as he cared for in managing his own
affairs. Both he and his wife were highly
cultivated persons, and their house was fre-
quented by a small set of such men and women
as persons of their tastes would think worth
knowing. So far as these knew, Mr. and Mrs.
Hardshaw lived happily together; certainly
the wife was devoted to her handsome and
accomplished husband and exceedingly proud
of him.

Among their acquaintances were the Bar-
wells — man, wife and two young children —
of Sacramento. Mr. Barwell was a civil and
mining engineer, whose duties took him much
from home and frequently to San Francisco.
On these occasions his wife commonly accom-
panied him and passed much of her time at
the house of her friend, Mrs. Hardshaw, al-
ways with her two children, of whom Mrs.
Hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond. Un-
luckily, her husband grew equally fond of
their mother — a good deal fonder. Still more
unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise
than weak.

At about three o'clock one autumn morning
Officer No. 13 of the Sacramento police saw a
man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a
gentleman's residence and promptly arrested

238 THE COLLECTED WORKS

him. The man — who wore a slouch hat and
shaggy overcoat — offered the policeman one
hundred, then five hundred, then one thou-
sand dollars to be released. As he had less
than the first mentioned sum on his person the
oflicer treated his proposal with virtuous con-
tempt. Before reaching the station the
prisoner agreed to give him a check for ten
thousand dollars and remain ironed in the
willows along the river bank until it should
be paid. As this only provoked new derision
he would say no more, merely giving an
obviously fictitious name. When he was
searched at the station nothing of value was
found on him but a miniature portrait of Mrs.
Barwell — the lady of the house at which he
was caught. The case was set with costly dia-
monds; and something in the quality of the
man's linen sent a pang of unavailing regret
through the severely incorruptible bosom of
Officer No. 13. There was nothing about the
prisoner's clothing nor person to identify him
and he was booked for burglary under the
name that he had given, the honorable name
of John K. Smith. The K. was an inspiration
upon which, doubtless, he greatly prided him-
self.

In the mean time the mysterious disappear-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 239

ance of John Hardshaw was agitating the gos-
sips of Rincon Hill in San Francisco, and was
even mentioned in one of the newspapers. It
did not occur to the lady whom that journal
considerately described as his " widow," to
look for him in the city prison at Sacramento
— a town which he was not known ever to
have visited. As John K. Smith he was
arraigned and, waiving examination, com-
mitted for trial.

About two weeks before the trial, Mrs.
Hardshaw, accidentally learning that her hus-
band was held in Sacramento under an as-
sumed name on a charge of burglary, hastened
to that city without daring to mention the mat-
ter to any one and presented herself at the
prison, asking for an interview with her hus-
band, John K. Smith. Haggard and ill with
anxiety, wearing a plain traveling wrap which
covered her from neck to foot, and in which
she had passed the night on the steamboat, too
anxious to sleep, she hardly showed for what
she was, but her manner pleaded for her more
strongly than anything that she chose to say
in evidence of her right to admittance. She
was permitted to see him alone.

What occurred during that distressing in-
terview has never transpired ; but later events

240 THE COLLECTED WORKS

prove that Hardshaw had found means to sub-
due her will to his own. She left the prison,
a broken-hearted woman, refusing to answer
a single question, and returning to her desolate
home renewed, in a half-hearted way, her in-
quiries for her missing husband. A wxek
later she was herself missing: she had "gone
back to the States " — nobody knew any more
than that.

On his trial the prisoner pleaded guilty —
" by advice of his counsel," so his counsel said.
Nevertheless, the judge, in whose mind sev-
eral unusual circumstances had created a
doubt, insisted on the district attorney placing
Officer No. 13 on the stand, and the deposi-
tion of Mrs. Barwell, who was too ill to at-
tend, was read to the jury. It was very brief:
she knew nothing of the matter except that the
likeness of herself was her property, and had,
she thought, been left on the parlor table
when she had retired on the night of the
arrest. She had intended it as a present to her
husband, then and still absent in Europe on
business for a mining company.

This witness's manner when making the
deposition at her residence was afterward de-
scribed by the district attorney as most extra-
ordinary. Twice she had refused to testify,
and once, when the deposition lacked noth-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 241

ing but her signature, she had caught it from
the clerk's hands and torn it in pieces. She
had called her children to the bedside and
embraced them with streaming eyes, then sud-
denly sending them from the room, she veri-
fied her statement by oath and signature, and
fainted — "slick away," said the district at-
torney. It was at that time that her physician,
arriving upon the scene, took in the situation
at a glance and grasping the representative of
the law by the collar chucked him into the
street and kicked his assistant after him. The
insulted majesty of the law was not vindic-
ated ; the victim of the indignity did not even
mention anything of all this in court. He was
ambitious to win his case, and the circum-
stances of the taking of that deposition were
not such as would give it weight if related;
and after all, the man on trial had committed
an offense against the law's majesty only
less heinous than that of the irascible physi-
cian.

By suggestion of the judge the jury rend-
ered a verdict of guilty; there was nothing
else to do, and the prisoner was sentenced to
the penitentiary for three years. His counsel,
who had objected to nothing and had made
no plea for lenity — had, in fact, hardly said a
word — ^wrung his client's hand and left the

242 THE COLLECTED WORKS

room. It was obvious to the whole bar that
he had been engaged only to prevent the court
from appointing counsel who might possibly
insist on making a defense.

John Hardshaw served out his term at San
Quentin, and when discharged was met at the
prison gates by his wife, who had returned
from "the States" to receive him. It is
thought they went straight to Europe; any-
how, a general power-of-attorney to a lawyer
still living among us — from whom I have
many of the facts of this simple history — was
executed in Paris. This lawyer in a short
time sold everything that Hardshaw owned in
California, and for years nothing was heard
of the unfortunate couple; though many to
whose ears had come vague and inaccurate
intimations of their strange story, and who
had known them, recalled their personality
with tenderness and their misfortunes with
compassion.

Some years later they returned, both broken
in fortune and spirits and he in health. The
purpose of their return I have not been able
to ascertain. For some time they lived, under
the name of Johnson, in a respectable enough
quarter south of Market Street, pretty well
out, and were never seen away from the vicin-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 243

ity of their dwelling. They must have had a
little money left, for it is not known that the
man had any occupation, the state of his health
probably not permitting. The woman's devo-
tion to her invalid husband was matter of re-
mark among their neighbors; she seemed
never absent from his side and always sup-
porting and cheering him. They would sit
for hours on one of the benches in a little pub-
lic park, she reading to him, his hand in hers,
her light touch occasionally visiting his pale
brow, her still beautiful eyes frequently lifted
from the book to look into his as she made
some comment on the text, or closed the vol-
ume to beguile his mood with talk of — what?
Nobody ever overheard a conversation be-
tween these two. The reader who has had the
patience to follow their history to this point
may possibly find a pleasure in conjecture:
there was probably something to be avoided.
The bearing of the man was one of profound
dejection; indeed, the unsympathetic youth of
the neighborhood, with that keen sense for
visible characteristics which ever distinguishes
the young male of our species, sometimes men-
tioned him among themselves by the name of
Spoony Glum.
It occurred one day that John Hardshaw

244 THE COLLECTED WORKS

was possessed by the spirit of unrest. God
knows what led him whither he went, but he
crossed Market Street and held his way north-
ward over the hills, and downward into the
region known as North Beach. Turning aim-
lessly to the left he followed his toes along an
unfamiliar street until he was opposite what
for that period was a rather grand dwelling,
and for this is a rather shabby factory. Cast-
ing his eyes casually upward he saw at an
open window what it had been better that he
had not seen — the face and figure of Elvira
Barwell. Their eyes met. With a sharp ex-
clamation, like the cry of a startled bird, the
lady sprang to her feet and thrust her body
half out of the window, clutching the casing
on each side. Arrested by the cry, the people
in the street below looked up. Hardshaw
stood motionless, speechless, his eyes two
flames. " Take care ! " shouted some one in the
crowd, as the woman strained further and
further forward, defying the silent, implac-
able law of gravitation, as once she had defied
that other law which God thundered from
Sinai. The suddenness of her movements had
tumbled a torrent of dark hair down her
shoulders, and now it was blown about her
cheeks, almost concealing her face. A

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 245

moment so, and then — I A fearful cry rang
through the street, as, losing her balance, she
pitched headlong from the window, a con-
fused and whirling mass of skirts, limbs, hair,
and white face, and struck the pavement with
a horrible sound and a force of impact that
was felt a hundred feet away. For a moment
all eyes refused their office and turned from
the sickening spectacle on the sidewalk.
Drawn again to that horror, they saw it
strangely augmented. A man, hatless, seated
flat upon the paving stones, held the broken,
bleeding body against his breast, kissing the
mangled cheeks and streaming mouth through
tangles of wet hair, his own features indis-
tinguishably crimson with the blood that half-
strangled him and ran in rills from his soaken
beard.

The reporter's task is nearly finished. The
Barwells had that very morning returned
from a two years' absence in Peru. A week
later the widower, now doubly desolate, since
there could be no missing the significance of
Hardshaw's horrible demonstration, had
sailed for I know not what distant port ; he has
never come back to stay. Hardshaw — as John-
son no longer — passed a year in the Stockton
asylum for the insane, where also, through the

246 THE COLLECTED WORKS

influence of pitying friends, his wife was ad-
mitted to care for him. When he was dis-
charged, not cured but harmless, they re-
turned to the city; it would seem ever to have
had some dreadful fascination for them. For
a time they lived near the Mission Dolores, in
poverty only less abject than that which is
their present lot; but it was too far away from
the objective point of the man's daily pilgrim-
age. They could not afford car fare. So that
poor devil of an angel from Heaven — wife to
this convict and lunatic — obtained, at a fair
enough rental, the blank-faced shanty on the
lower terrace of Goat Hill. Thence to the
structure that was a dwelling and is a factory
the distance is not so great; it is, in fact, an
agreeable walk, judging from the man's eager
and cheerful look as he takes it. The return
journey appears to be a trifle wearisome.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 247

AN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE *

I TAUGHT a little country school near
Brownville, which, as every one knows
who has had the good luck to live there,
is the capital of a considerable expanse
of the finest scenery in California. The town is
somewhat frequented in summer by a class of
persons whom it is the habit of the local jour-
nal to call " pleasure seekers," but who by a
juster classification would be known as " the
sick and those in adversity." Brownville it-
self might rightly enough be described, in-
deed, as a summer place of last resort. It is
fairly well endowed with boarding-houses, at
the least pernicious of which I performed
twice a day (lunching at the schoolhouse) the
humble rite of cementing the alliance between
soul and body. From this " hostelry " (as the
local journal preferred to call it when it did
not call it a "caravanserai") to the school-
house the distance by the wagon road was
about a mile and a half; but there was a trail,
very little used, which led over an interven-

*ThIs story was written in collaboration with Miss Ina Lillian
Peterson, to whom is rightly due the credit for whatever merit it
may have.

248 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ing range of low, heavily wooded hills, con-
siderably shortening the distance. By this
trail I was returning one evening later than
usual. It was the last day of the term and I
had been detained at the schoolhouse until al-
most dark, preparing an account of my stew-
ardship for the trustees — two of whom, I
proudly reflected, would be able to read it,
and the third (an instance of the dominion
of mind over matter) would be overruled in
his customary antagonism to the schoolmaster
of his own creation.

I had gone not more than a quarter of the
way when, finding an interest in the antics of
a family of lizards which dwelt thereabout
and seemed full of reptilian joy for their im-
munity from the ills incident to life at the
Brownville House, I sat upon a fallen tree to
observe them. As I leaned wearily against a
branch of the gnarled old trunk the twilight
deepened in the somber woods and the faint
new moon began casting visible shadows and
gilding the leaves of the trees with a tender
but ghostly light.

I heard the sound of voices — a woman's,
angry, impetuous, rising against deep mascu-
line tones, rich and musical. I strained my
eyes, peering through the dusky shadows of the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 249

wood, hoping to get a view of the intruders on
my solitude, but could see no one. For some
yards in each direction I had an uninterrupted
view of the trail, and knowing of no other
within a half mile thought the persons heard
must be approaching from the wood at one
side. There was no sound but that of the
voices, which were now so distinct that I could
catch the words. That of the man gave me an
impression of anger, abundantly confirmed by
the matter spoken.

" I will have no threats ; you are powerless,
as you very well know. Let things remain as
they are or, by God! you shall both suffer
for it."

"What do you mean?" — this was the voice
of the woman, a cultivated voice, the voice of
a lady. " You would not — murder us."

There was no reply, at least none that was
audible to me. During the silence I peered
into the wood in hope to get a glimpse of the
speakers, for I felt sure that this was an affair
of gravity in which ordinary scruples ought
not to count. It seemed to me that the woman
was in peril ; at any rate the man had not dis-
avowed a willingness to murder. When a
man is enacting the role of potential assassin
he has not the right to choose his audience.

250 THE COLLECTED WORKS

After some little time I saw them, indistinct
in the moonlight among the trees. The man,
tall and slender, seemed clothed in black; the
woman wore, as nearly as I could make out, a
gown of gray stuff. Evidently they were still
unaware of my presence in the shadow,
though for some reason when they renewed
their conversation they spoke in lower tones
and I could no longer understand. As I
looked the woman seemed to sink to the
ground and raise her hands in supplication,
as is frequently done on the stage and never,
so far as I knew, anywhere else, and I am now
not altogether sure that it was done in this
instance. The man fixed his eyes upon her;
they seemed to glitter bleakly in the moon-
light with an expression that made me appre-
hensive that he would turn them upon me. I
do not know by what impulse I was moved,
but I sprang to my feet out of the shadow. At
that instant the figures vanished. I peered in
vain through the spaces among the trees and
clumps of undergrowth. The night wind
rustled the leaves; the lizards had retired
early, reptiles of exemplary habits. The little
moon was already slipping behind a black hill
in the west.

I went home, somewhat disturbed in mind,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 251

half doubting that I had heard or seen any
living thing excepting the lizards. It all
seemed a trifle odd and uncanny. It was as if
among the several phenomena, objective and
subjective, that made the sum total of the inci-
dent there had been an uncertain element
v^hich had diffused its dubious character over
all — had leavened the whole mass with un-
reality. I did not like it.

At the breakfast table the next morning
there was a new face ; opposite me sat a young
woman at whom I merely glanced as I took my
seat. In speaking to the high and mighty
female personage who condescended to seem
to wait upon us, this girl soon invited my at-
tention by the sound of her voice, which was
like, yet not altogether like, the one still mur-
muring in my memory of the previous even-
ing's adventure. A moment later another girl,
a few years older, entered the room and sat
at the left of the other, speaking to her a
gentle " good morning." By her voice I was
startled: it was without doubt the one of
which the first girl's had reminded me. Here
was the lady of the sylvan incident sitting
bodily before me. "in her habit as she
lived."

Evidently enough the two were sisters.

252 THE COLLECTED WORKS

With a nebulous kind of apprehension that I
might be recognized as the mute inglorious
hero of an adventure which had in my con-
sciousness and conscience something of the
character of eavesdropping, I allowed myself
only a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee
thoughtfully provided by the prescient wait-
ress for the emergency, and left the table. As
I passed out of the house into the grounds I
heard a rich, strong male voice singing an
aria from " Rigoletto." I am bound to say
that it was exquisitely sung, too, but there was
something in the performance that displeased
me, I could say neither what nor why, and I
walked rapidly away.

Returning later in the day I saw the elder
of the two young women standing on the
porch and near her a tall man in black cloth-
ing— the man whom I had expected to see.
All day the desire to know something of these
persons had been uppermost in my mind and I
now resolved to learn what I could of them in
any way that was neither dishonorable nor
low.

The man was talking easily and affably to
his companion, but at the sound of my foot-
steps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turn-
ing about looked me full in the face. He was

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 253

apparently of middle age, dark and uncom-
monly handsome. His attire was faultless, his
bearing easy and graceful, the look which he
turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any
suggestion of rudeness. Nevertheless it
affected me with a distinct emotion which on
subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be
compounded of hatred and dread — I am un-
willing to call it fear. A second later the man
and woman had disappeared. They seemed
to have a trick of disappearing. On entering
the house, however, I saw them through the
open doorway of the parlor as I passed; they
had merely stepped through a window which
opened down to the floor.

Cautiously " approached" on the subject of
her new guests my landlady proved not un-
gracious. Restated with, I hope, some small
reverence for English grammar the facts were
these: the two girls were Pauline and Eva
Maynard of San Francisco; the elder was
Pauline. The man was Richard Benning,
their guardian, who had been the most inti-
mate friend of their father, now deceased.
Mr. Benning had brought them to Brownville
in the hope that the mountain climate might
benefit Eva, who was thought to be in danger
of consumption.

254 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Upon these short and simple annals the
landlady wrought an embroidery of eulogium
which abundantly attested her faith in Mr.
Benning's will and ability to pay for the best
that her house aflforded. That he had a good
heart was evident to her from his devotion to
his two beautiful wards and his really touch-
ing solicitude for their comfort. The evi-
dence impressed me as insufficient and I
silently found the Scotch verdict, "Not
proven."

Certainly Mr. Benning was most attentive
to his wards. In my strolls about the country I
frequently encountered them — sometimes in
company with other guests of the hotel — ex-
ploring the gulches, fishing, rifle shooting, and
otherwise wiling away the monotony of
country life ; and although I watched them as
closely as good manners would permit I saw
nothing that would in any way explain the
strange words that I had overheard in the
wood. I had grown tolerably well acquainted
with the young ladies and could exchange
looks and even greetings with their guardian
without actual repugnance.

A month went by and I had almost ceased
to interest myself in their affairs when one
night our entire little community was thrown

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 255

into excitement by an event which vividly re-
called my experience in the forest.

This was the death of the elder girl, Paul-
ine.

The sisters had occupied the same bedroom
on the third floor of the house. Waking in
the gray of the morning Eva had found Paul-
ine dead beside her. Later, when the poor
girl was weeping beside the body amid a
throng of sympathetic if not very considerate
persons, Mr. Benning entered the room and
appeared to be about to take her hand. She
drew away from the side of the dead and
moved slowly toward the door.

" It is you," she said — " you who have done
this. You — you — you ! "

" She is raving," he said in a low voice.
He followed her, step by step, as she retreated,
his eyes fixed upon hers with a steady gaze in
which there was nothing of tenderness nor of
compassion. She stopped; the hand that she
had raised in accusation fell to her side, her
dilated eyes contracted visibly, the lids slowly
dropped over them, veiling their strange wild
beauty, and she stood motionless and almost as
white as the dead girl lying near. The man
took her hand and put his arm gently about
her shoulders, as if to support her. Suddenly

256 THE COLLECTED WORKS

she burst into a passion of tears and clung to
him as a child to its mother. He smiled with
a smile that affected me most disagreeably —
perhaps any kind of smile would have done
so — and led her silently out of the room.

There was an inquest — and the customary
verdict: the deceased, it appeared, came to her
death through "heart disease." It was be-
fore the invention of heart failure, though
the heart of poor Pauline had indubitably
failed. The body was embalmed and taken to
San Francisco by some one summoned thence
for the purpose, neither Eva nor Benning ac-
companying it. Some of the hotel gossips
ventured to think that very strange, and a few
hardy spirits went so far as to think it very
strange indeed; but the good landlady gen-
erously threw herself into the breach, saying
it was owing to the precarious nature of the
girPs health. It is nojt of record that either
of the two persons most affected and appar-
ently least concerned made any explanation.

One evening about a week after the death I
went out upon the veranda of the hotel to get
a book that I had left there. Under some
vines shutting out the moonlight from a part
of the space I saw Richard Benning, for
whose apparition I was prepared by having

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 257

previously heard the low, sweet voice of Eva
Maynard, whom also I now discerned, stand-
ing before him with one hand raised to his
shoulder and her eyes, as nearly as I could
judge, gazing upward into his. He held her
disengaged hand and his head was bent with
a singular dignity and grace. Their attitude
was that of lovers, and as I stood in deep
shadow to observe I felt even guiltier than on
that memorable night in the wood. I was
about to retire, when the girl spoke, and the
contrast between her words and her attitude
was so surprising that I remained, because I
had merely forgotten to go away.

" You will take my life," she said, " as you
did Pauline's. I know your intention as well
as I know your power, and I ask nothing, only
that you finish your work without needless
delay and let me be at peace."

He made no reply — merely let go the hand
that he was holding, removed the other from
his shoulder, and turning away descended the
steps leading to the garden and disappeared
in the shrubbery. But a moment later I
heard, seemingly from a great distance, his
fine clear voice in a barbaric chant, which as I
listened brought before some inner spiritual
sense a consciousness of some far, strange land

258 THE COLLECTED WORKS

peopled with beings having forbidden powers.
The song held me in a kind of spell, but when
it had died away I recovered and instantly
perceived what I thought an opportunity. I
walked out of my shadow to where the girl
stood. She turned and stared at me with
something of the look, it seemed to me, of a
hunted hare. Possibly my intrusion had
frightened her.

"Miss Maynard," I said, "I beg you to
tell me who that man is and the nature of his
power over you. Perhaps this is rude in me,
but it is not a matter for idle civilities. When
a woman is in danger any man has a right
to act."

She listened without visible emotion —
almost I thought without interest, and when
I had finished she closed her big blue eyes as
if unspeakably weary.

" You can do nothing," she said.

I took hold of her arm, gently shaking her
as one shakes a person falling into a danger-
ous sleep.

" You must rouse yourself," I said ; " some-
thing must be done and you must give me
leave to act. You have said that that man
killed your sister, and I believe it — that he
will kill you, and I believe that."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 259

She merely raised her eyes to mine.

" Will you not tell me all? " I added.

" There is nothing to be done, I tell you —
nothing. And if I could do anything I would
not. It does not matter in the least. We shall
be here only two days more ; we go away then,
oh, so far! If you have observed anything, I
beg you to be silent."

" But this is madness, girl." I was trying
by rough speech to break the deadly repose of
her manner. "You have accused him of
murder. Unless you explain these things to
me I shall lay the matter before the authori-
ties."

This roused her, but in a way that I did not
like. She lifted her head proudly and said:
" Do not meddle, sir, in what does not concern
you. This is my affair, Mr. Moran, not
yours."

" It concerns every person in the country —
in the world," I answered, with equal cold-
ness. " If you had no love for your sister I,
at least, am concerned for you."

" Listen," she interrupted, leaning toward
me. "I loved her, yes, God knows! But
more than that — beyond all, beyond expres-
sion, I love him. You have overheard a
secret, but you shall not make use of it to harm

260 THE COLLECTED WORKS

him. I shall deny all. Your word against
mine — it will be that. Do you think your
* authorities ' will believe you? "

She was now smiling like an angel and, God
help me! I was heels over head in love with
her! Did she, by some of the many methods
of divination known to her sex, read my feel-
ings? Her whole manner had altered.

" Come," she said, almost coaxingly,
" promise that you will not be impolite again."
She took my arm in the most friendly way.
" Come, I will walk with you. He will not
know — he will remain away all night."

Up and down the veranda we paced in the
moonlight, she seemingly forgetting her re-
cent bereavement, cooing and murmuring girl-
wise of every kind of nothing in all Brown-
ville ; I silent, consciously awkward and with
something of the feeling of being concerned in
an intrigue. It was a revelation — this most
charming and apparently blameless creature
coolly and confessedly deceiving the man for
whom a moment before she had acknow-
ledged and shown the supreme love which
finds even death an acceptable endearment.

"Truly," I thought in my inexperience,
" here is something new under the moon."

And the moon must have smiled.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 261

Before we parted I had exacted a promise
that she would walk with me the next after-
noon— before going away forever — to the Old
Mill, one of Brownville's revered antiquities,
erected in i860.

" If he is not about," she added gravely, as
I let go the hand she had given me at parting,
and of which, may the good saints forgive me,
I strove vainly to repossess myself when she
had said it — so charming, as the wise French-
man has pointed out, do we find woman's in-
fidelity when we are its objects, not its vic-
tims. In apportioning his benefactions that
night the Angel of Sleep overlooked me.

The Brownville House dined early, and
after dinner the next day Miss Maynard, who
had not been at table, came to me on the
veranda, attired in the demurest of walking
costumes, saying not a word. " He " was evi-
dently " not about." We went slowly up the
road that led to the Old Mill. She was ap-
parently not strong and at times took my arm,
relinquishing it and taking it again rather
capriciously, I thought. Her mood, or rather
her succession of moods, was as mutable as
skylight in a rippling sea. She jested as if
she had never heard of such a thing as death,
and laughed on the lightest incitement, and

262 THE COLLECTED WORKS

directly afterward would sing a few bars of
some grave melody with such tenderness of
expression that I had to turn away my eyes
lest she should see the evidence of her success
in art, if art it was, not artlessness, as then I
was compelled to think it. And she said the
oddest things in the most unconventional way,
skirting sometimes unfathomable abysms of
thought, where I had hardly the courage to
set foot. In short, she was fascinating in a
thousand and fifty different ways, and at every
step I executed a new and profounder emo-
tional folly, a hardier spiritual indiscretion,
incurring fresh liability to arrest by the con-
stabulary of conscience for infractions of my
own peace.

Arriving at the mill, she made no pretense
of stopping, but turned into a trail leading
through a field of stubble toward a creek.
Crossing by a rustic bridge we continued on
the trail, which now led uphill to one of the
most picturesque spots in the country. The
Eagle's Nest, it was called — the summit of a
cliff that rose sheer into the air to a height of
hundreds of feet above the forest at its base.
From this elevated point we had a noble view
of another valley and of the opposite hills
flushed with the last rays of the setting sun.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 263

As we watched the light escaping to higher
and higher planes from the encroaching flood
of shadow filling the valley we heard foot-
steps, and in another moment were joined by
Richard Benning.

" I saw you from the road," he said care-
lessly; " so I came up."

Being a fool, I neglected to take him by
the throat and pitch him into the treetops
below, but muttered some polite lie instead.
On the girl the effect of his coming was im-
mediate and unmistakable. Her face was
suffused with the glory of love's transfigura-
tion : the red light of the sunset had not been
more obvious in her eyes than was now the
lovelight that replaced it.

" I am so glad you came! " she said, giving
him both her hands ; and, God help me I it was
manifestly true.

Seating himself upon the ground he began a
lively dissertation upon the wild flowers of the
region, a number of which he had with him.
In the middle of a facetious sentence he sud-
denly ceased speaking and fixed his eyes upon
Eva, who leaned against the stump of a tree,
absently plaiting grasses. She lifted her eyes
in a startled way to his, as if she had felt his
look. She then rose, cast away her grasses.

264 THE COLLECTED WORKS

and moved slowly away from him. He also
rose, continuing to look at her. He had still
in his hand the bunch of flowers. The girl
turned, as if to speak, but said nothing. I
recall clearly now something of which I was
but half-conscious then — the dreadful contrast
between the smile upon her lips and the terri-
fied expression in her eyes as she met his
steady and imperative gaze. I know nothing
of how it happened, nor how it was that I did
not sooner understand; I only know that with
the smile of an angel upon her lips and that
look of terror in her beautiful eyes Eva May-
nard sprang from the cliff and shot crashing
into the tops of the pines below!

How and how long afterward I reached the
place I cannot say, but Richard Benning was
already there, kneeling beside the dreadful
thing that had been a woman.

" She is dead — quite dead," he said coldly.
" I will go to town for assistance. Please do
me the favor to remain."

He rose to his feet and moved away, but in
a moment had stopped and turned about.

" You have doubtless observed, my friend,"
he said, *^ that this was entirely her own act. I
did not rise in time to prevent it, and you, not

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 265

knowing her mental condition — ^you could not,
of course, have suspected."

His manner maddened me.

" You are as much her assassin," I said, " as
if your damnable hands had cut her throat."

He shrugged his shoulders without reply
and, turning, walked away. A moment later
I heard, through the deepening shadows of
the wood into which he had disappeared, a
rich, strong, baritone voice singing ''La donna
e mobile/' from " Rigoletto."

266 THE COLLECTED WORKS

THE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST

IT was rough on Gilson. Such was the
terse, cold, but not altogether unsympa-
thetic judgment of the better public opin-
ion at Mammon Hill — the dictum of re-
spectability. The verdict of the opposite, or
rather the opposing, element — the element
that lurked red-eyed and restless about Moll
Gurney's " deadfall," while respectability
took it with sugar at Mr. Jo. Bentley's gor-
geous " saloon " — was to pretty much the same
general effect, though somewhat more or-
nately expressed by the use of picturesque
expletives, which it is needless to quote.
Virtually, Mammon Hill was a unit on the
Gilson question. And it must be confessed
that in a merely temporal sense all was not
well with Mr. Gilson. He had that morning
been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and
publicly charged with horse stealing; the
sheriff meantime busying himself about The
Tree with a new manila rope and Carpenter
Pete being actively employed between drinks
upon a pine box about the length and breadth
of Mr. Gilson. Society having rendered its

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 267

verdict, there remained between Gilson
and eternity only the decent formality of a
trial.

These are the short and simple annals of the
prisoner: He had recently been a resident of
New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little
Stony, but had come to the newly discovered
placers of Mammon Hill immediately before
the " rush " by which the former place was
depopulated. The discovery of the new digg-
ings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gil-
son, for it had only just before been intimated
to him by a New Jerusalem vigilance commit-
tee that it would better his prospects in, and
for, life to go somewhere; and the list of
places to which he could safely go did not in-
clude any of the older camps ; so he naturally
established himself at Mammon Hill. Being
eventually followed thither by all his judges,
he ordered his conduct with considerable cir-
cumspection, but as he had never been known
to do an honest day's work at any industry
sanctioned by the stern local code of morality
except draw poker he was still an object of
suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he
was the author of the many daring depreda-
tions that had recently been committed with
pan and brush on the sluice boxes.

268 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Prominent among those in whom this sus-
picion had ripened into a steadfast conviction
was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable and
unseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed
his belief in Mr. Gilson's connection with
these unholy midnight enterprises, and his
own willingness to prepare a way for the solar
beams through the body of any one who might
think it expedient to utter a different opinion
— ^which, in his presence, no one was more
careful not to do than the peace-loving per-
son most concerned. Whatever may have
been the truth of the matter, it is certain that
Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at
Jo. Bentley's faro table than it was recorded
in local history that he had ever honestly
earned at draw poker in all the days of the
camp's existence. But at last Mr. Bentley —
fearing, it may be, to lose the more profitable
patronage of Mr. Brentshaw — peremptorily
refused to let Gilson copper the queen, intim-
ating at the same time, in his frank, forth-
right way, that the privilege of losing money
at " this bank " was a blessing appertaining to,
proceeding logically from, and coterminous
with, a condition of notorious commercial
righteousness and social good repute.

The Hill thought it high time to look after

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 269

a person whom its most honored citizen had
felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable per-
sonal sacrifice. The New Jerusalem con-
tingent, particularly, began to abate some-
thing of the toleration begotten of amusement
at their own blunder in exiling an objection-
able neighbor from the place which they had
left to the place whither they had come.
Mammon Hill was at last of one mind. Not
much was said, but that Gilson must hang was
" in the air." But at this critical juncture in
his affairs he showed signs of an altered life
if not a changed heart. Perhaps it was only
that " the bank " being closed against him he
had no further use for gold dust. Anyhow
the sluice boxes were molested no more for-
ever. But it was impossible to repress the
abounding energies of such a nature as his,
and he continued, possibly from habit, the
tortuous courses which he had pursued for
profit of Mr. Bentley. After a few tentative
and resultless undertakings in the way of
highway robbery — if one may venture to
designate road-agency by so harsh a name —
he made one or two modest essays in horse-
herding, and it was in the midst of a promis-
ing enterprise of this character, and just as he
had taken the tide in his affairs at its flood,

270 THE COLLECTED WORKS

that he made shipwreck. For on a misty,
moonlight night Mr. Brentshaw rode up
alongside a person who was evidently leaving
that part of the country, laid a hand upon the
halter connecting Mr. Gilson's wrist with Mr.
Harper's bay mare, tapped him familiarly on
the cheek with the barrel of a navy revolver
and requested the pleasure of his company in
a direction opposite to that in which he was
traveling.

It was indeed rough on Gilson.

On the morning after his arrest he was
tried, convicted, and sentenced. It only re-
mains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to
hang him, reserving for more particular men-
tion his last will and testament, which, with
great labor, he contrived in prison, and in
which, probably from some confused and im-
perfect notion of the rights of captors, he be-
queathed everything he owned to his " lawfle
execketer," Mr. Brentshaw. The bequest,
however, was made conditional on the legatee
taking the testator's body from The Tree and
" planting it white."

So Mr. Gilson was — I was about to say
*' swung off," but I fear there has been al-
ready something too much of slang in this
straightforward statement of facts; besides,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 271

the manner in which the law took its course
is more accurately described in the terms em-
ployed by the judge in passing sentence: Mr.
Gilson was " strung up."

In due season Mr. Brentshaw, somewhat
touched, it may well be, by the empty compli-
ment of the bequest, repaired to The Tree to
pluck the fruit thereof. When taken down
the body was found to have in its waistcoat
pocket a duly attested codicil to the will al-
ready noted. The nature of its provisions ac-
counted for the manner in which it had been
withheld, for had Mr. Brentshaw previously
been made aware of the conditions under
which he was to succeed to the Gilson estate
he would indubitably have declined the
responsibility. Briefly stated, the purport of
the codicil was as follows :

Whereas, at divers times and in sundry
places, certain persons had asserted that dur-
ing his life the testator had robbed their sluice
boxes ; therefore, if during the five years next
succeeding the date of this instrument any one
should make proof of such assertion before a
court of law, such person was to receive as
reparation the entire personal and real estate
of which the testator died seized and pos-
sessed, minus the expenses of court and a

272 THE COLLECTED WORKS

stated compensation to the executor, Henry
Clay Brentshaw; provided, that if more than
one person made such proof the estate was to
be equally divided between or among them.
But in case none should succeed in so estab-
lishing the testator's guilt, then the whole
property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid,
should go to the said Henry Clay Brentshaw
for his own use, as stated in the will.

The syntax of this remarkable document
was perhaps open to critical objection, but that
was clearly enough the meaning of it. The
orthography conformed to no recognized sys-
tem, but being mainly phonetic it was not
ambiguous. As the probate judge remarked,
it would take five aces to beat it. Mr. Brent-
shaw smiled good-humoredly, and after per-
forming the last sad rites with amusing
ostentation, had himself duly sworn as exec-
utor and conditional legatee under the provi-
sions of a law hastily passed (at the instance
of the member from the Mammon Hill dis-
trict) by a facetious legislature; which law
was afterward discovered to have created also
three or four lucrative offices and authorized
the expenditure of a considerable sum of pub-
lic money for the construction of a certain
railway bridge that with greater advantage

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 273

might perhaps have been erected on the line
of some actual railway.

Of course Mr. Brentshaw expected neither
profit from the will nor litigation in conse-
quence of its unusual provisions; Gilson, al-
though frequently " flush," had been a man
whom assessors and tax collectors were well
satisfied to lose no money by. But a careless
and merely formal search among his papers
revealed title deeds to valuable estates in
the East and certificates of deposit for in-
credible sums in banks less severely scrupulous
than that of Mr. Jo. Bentley.

The astounding news got abroad directly,
throwing the Hill into a fever of excitement.
The Mammon Hill Patriot, whose editor had
been a leading spirit in the proceedings that
resulted in Gilson's departure from New
Jerusalem, published a most complimentary
obituary notice of the deceased, and was good
enough to call attention to the fact that his de-
graded contemporary, the Squaw Gulch
Clarion, was bringing virtue into contempt by
beslavering with flattery the memory of one
who in life had spurned the vile sheet as a
nuisance from his door. Undeterred by the
press, however, claimants under the will were
not slow in presenting themselves with their

274 THE COLLECTED WORKS

evidence; and great as was the Gilson estate
it appeared conspicuously paltry considering
the vast number of sluice boxes from which
it was averred to have been obtained. The
country rose as one man I

Mr. Brentshaw was equal to the emergency.
With a shrewd application of humble aux-
iliary devices, he at once erected above the
bones of his benefactor a costly monument,
overtopping every rough headboard in the
cemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to
be inscribed an epitaph of his own composing,
eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and
cognate virtues of him who slept beneath, " a
victim to the unjust aspersions of Slander's
viper brood."

Moreover, he employed the best legal talent
in the Territory to defend the memory of his
departed friend, and for five long years the
Territorial courts were occupied with litiga-
tion growing out of the Gilson bequest. To
fine forensic abilities Mr. Brentshaw opposed
abilities more finely forensic; in bidding for
purchasable favors he offered prices which
utterly deranged the market; the judges found
at his hospitable board entertainment for man
and beast, the like of which had never been
spread in the Territory; with mendacious wit-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 275

nesses he confronted witnesses of superior
mendacity.

Nor was the battle confined to the temple of
the blind goddess — it invaded the press, the
pulpit, the drawing-room. It raged in the
mart, the exchange, the school ; in the gulches,
and on the street corners. And upon the last
day of the memorable period to which legal
action under the Gilson will was limited, the
sun went down upon a region in which the
moral sense was dead, the social conscience
callous, the intellectual capacity dwarfed, en-
feebled, and confused! But Mr. Brentshaw
was victorious all along the line.

On that night it so happened that the ceme-
tery in one corner of which lay the now
honored ashes of the late Milton Gilson, Esq.,
was partly under water. Swollen by inces-
sant rains, Cat Creek had spilled over its
banks an angry flood which, after scooping
out unsightly hollows wherever the soil had
been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if
ashamed of the sacrilege, leaving exposed
much that had been piously concealed. Even
the famous Gilson monument, the pride and
glory of Mammon Hill, was no longer a
standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; suc-
cumbing to the sapping current it had toppled

276 THE COLLECTED WORKS

prone to earth. The ghoulish flood had ex-
humed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which
now lay half-exposed, in pitiful contrast to the
pompous monolith which, like a giant note of
admiration, emphasized the disclosure.

To this depressing spot, drawn by some
subtle influence he had sought neither to resist
nor analyze, came Mr. Brentshaw. An al-
tered man was Mr. Brentshaw. Five years
of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashed
his black locks with streaks and patches of
gray, bowed his fine figure, drawn sharp and
angular his face, and debased his walk to a
doddering shuffle. Nor had this lustrum of
fierce contention wrought less upon his heart
and intellect. The careless good humor that
had prompted him to accept the trust of the
dead man had given place to a fixed habit of
melancholy. The firm, vigorous intellect had
overripened into the mental mellowness of
second childhood. His broad understanding
had narrowed to the accommodation of a
single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynical
incredulity of former days, there was in him a
haunting faith in the supernatural, that flitted
and fluttered about his soul, shadowy, batlike,
ominous of insanity. Unsettled in all else, his
understanding clung to one conviction with

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 277

the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. That was
an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness
of the dead Gilson. He had so often sworn to
this in court and asserted it in private conver-
sation— had so frequently and so triumphantly
established it by testimony that had come ex-
pensive to him (for that very day he had paid
the last dollar of the Gilson estate to Mr. Jo.
Bentley, the last witness to the Gilson good
character) — that it had become to him a sort
of religious faith. It seemed to him the one
great central ar]d basic truth of life — the sole
serene verity in a world of lies.

On that night, as he seated himself pen-
sively upon the prostrate monument, trying
by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the
epitaph which five years before he had com-
posed with a chuckle that memory had not
recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes
as he remembered that he had been mainly
instrumental in compassing by a false accusa-
tion this good man's death; for during some
of the legal proceedings, Mr. Harper, for a
consideration (forgotten) had come forward
and sworn that in the little transaction with
his bay mare the deceased had acted in strict
accordance with the Harperian wishes, con-
fidentially communicated to the deceased and

278 THE COLLECTED WORKS

by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his
life. All that Mr. Brentshaw had since done
for the dead man's memory seemed pitifully
inadequate — most mean, paltry, and debased
with selfishness I

As he sat there, torturing himself with
futile regrets, a faint shadow fell across his
eyes. Looking toward the moon, hanging
low in the west, he saw what seemed a vague,
watery cloud obscuring her; but as it moved
so that her beams lit up one side of it he per-
ceived the clear, sharp outline of a human
figure. The apparition became momentarily
more distinct, and grew, visibly; it was draw-
ing near. Dazed as were his senses, half
locked up with terror and confounded with
dreadful imaginings, Mr. Brentshaw yet
could but perceive, or think he perceived, in
this unearthly shape a strange similitude to
the mortal part of the late Milton Gilson, as
that person had looked when taken from The
Tree five years before. The likeness was in-
deed complete, even to the full, stony eyes, and
a certain shadowy circle about the neck. It
was without coat or hat, precisely as Gilson
had been when laid in his poor, cheap casket
by the not ungentle hands of Carpenter Pete
— for whom some one had long since per-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 279

formed the same neighborly office. The
spectre, if such it was, seemed to bear some-
thing in its hands which Mr. Brentshaw could
not clearly make out. It drew nearer, and
paused at last beside the coffin containing the
ashes of the late Mr. Gilson, the lid of which
was awry, half disclosing the uncertain in-
terior. Bending over this, the phantom
seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark
substance of dubious consistency, then glided
stealthily back to the lowest part of the ceme-
tery. Here the retiring flood had stranded a
number of open coffins, about and among
which it gurgled with low sobbings and stilly
whispers. Stooping over one of these, the ap-
parition carefully brushed its contents into the
basin, then returning to its own casket^
emptied the vessel into that, as before. This
mysterious operation was repeated at every
exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its
laden basin into the running water, and gently
agitating it to free it of the baser clay, always
hoarding the residuum in its own private box.
In short, the immortal part of the late Milton
Gilson was cleaning up the dust of its neigh-
bors and providently adding the same to its
own.

Perhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered

280 THE COLLECTED WORKS

mind in a fevered body. Perhaps it was a
solemn farce enacted by pranking existences
that throng the shadows lying along the
border of another world. God knows ; to us
is permitted only the knowledge that when
the sun of another day touched with a grace
of gold the ruined cemetery of Mammon Hill
his kindliest beam fell upon the white, still
face of Henry Brentshaw, dead among the
dead.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 281

THE APPLICANT

PUSHING his adventurous shins
through the deep snow that had fallen
overnight, and encouraged by the glee
of his little sister, following in the
open way that he made, a sturdy small boy,
the son of Grayville's most distinguished
citizen, struck his foot against something of
which there was no visible sign on the surface
of the snow. It is the purpose of this narra-
tive to explain how it came to be there.

No one who has had the advantage of pass-
ing through Grayville by day can have failed
to observe the large stone building crowning
the low hill to the north of the railway station
— that is to say, to the right in going toward
Great Mowbray. It is a somewhat dull-look-
ing edifice, of the Early Comatose order, and
appears to have been designed by an architect
who shrank from publicity, and although un-
able to conceal his work — even compelled, in
this instance, to set it on an eminence in the
sight of men — did what he honestly could to
insure it against a second look. So far as con-
cerns its outer and visible aspect, the Aber-

282 THE COLLECTED WORKS

sush Home for Old Men is unquestionably in-
hospitable to human attention. But it is a
building of great magnitude, and cost its
benevolent founder the profit of many a cargo
of the teas and silks and spices that his ships
brought up from the under-world when he
was in trade in Boston; though the main ex-
pense was its endowment. Altogether, this
reckless person had robbed his heirs-at-law of
no less a sum than half a million dollars and
flung it away in riotous giving. Possibly it
was with a view to get out of sight of the si-
lent big witness to his extravagance that he
shortly afterward disposed of all his Gray-
ville property that remained to him, turned
his back upon the scene of his prodigality and
went off across the sea in one of his own ships.
But the gossips who got their inspiration most
directly from Heaven declared that he went in
search of a wife — a theory not easily recon-
ciled with that of the village humorist, who
solemnly averred that the bachelor philan-
thropist had departed this life (left Grayville,
to wit) because the marriageable maidens had
made it too hot to hold him. However this
may have been, he had not returned, and al-
though at long intervals there had come to
Grayville, in a desultory way, vague rumors

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 288

of his wanderings in strange lands, no one
seemed certainly to know about him, and to
the new generation he was no more than a
name. But from above the portal of the
Home for Old Men the name shouted in
stone.

Despite its unpromising exterior, the Home
is a fairly commodious place of retreat from
the ills that its inmates have incurred by being
poor and old and men. At the time embraced
in this brief chronicle they were in number
about a score, but in acerbity, querulousness,
and general ingratitude they could hardly be
reckoned at fewer than a hundred; at least
that was the estimate of the superintendent,
Mr. Silas Tilbody. It was Mr. Tilbody's
steadfast conviction that always, in admitting
new old men to replace those who had gone to
another and a better Home, the trustees had
distinctly in will the infraction of his peace,
and the trial of his patience. In truth, the
longer the institution was connected with him,
the stronger was his feeling that the founder's
scheme of benevolence was sadly impaired by
providing any inmates at all. He had not
much imagination, but with what he had he
was addicted to the reconstruction of the
Home for Old Men into a kind of " castle in

284 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Spain," with himself as castellan, hospitably
entertaining about a score of sleek and pros-
perous middle-aged gentlemen, consummately
good-humored and civilly willing to pay for
their board and lodging. In this revised pro-
ject of philanthropy the trustees, to whom he
was indebted for his ofBce and responsible for
his conduct, had not the happiness to appear.
As to them, it was held by the village humor-
ist aforementioned that in their management
of the great charity Providence had thought-
fully supplied an incentive to thrift. With
the inference which he expected to be drawn
from that view we have nothing to do ; it had
neither support nor denial from the inmates,
who certainly were most concerned. They
lived out their little remnant of life, crept into
graves neatly numbered, and were succeeded
by other old men as like them as could be de-
sired by the Adversary of Peace. If the
Home was a place of punishment for the sin
of unthrift the veteran offenders sought
justice with a persistence that attested the
sincerity of their penitence. It is to one of
these that the reader's attention is now invited.
In the matter of attire this person was not
altogether engaging. But for this season,
which was midwinter, a careless observer

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 285

might have looked upon him as a clever de-
vice of the husbandman indisposed to share
the fruits of his toil with the crows that toil
not, neither spin — an error that might not
have been dispelled without longer and
closer observation than he seemed to court;
for his progress up Abersush Street, toward
the Home in the gloom of the winter evening,
was not visibly faster than what might have
been expected of a scarecrow blessed with
youth, health, and discontent. The man was
indisputably ill-clad, yet not without a certain
fitness and good taste, withal; for he was ob-
viously an applicant for admittance to the
Home, where poverty was a qualification. In
the army of indigence the uniform is rags;
they serve to distinguish the rank and file
from the recruiting officers.

As the old man, entering the gate of the
grounds, shuffled up the broad walk, already
white with the fast-falling snow, which from
time to time he feebly shook from its various
coigns of vantage on his person, he came un-
der inspection of the large globe lamp that
burned always by night over the great door
of the building. As if unwilling to incur its
revealing beams, he turned to the left and,
passing a considerable distance along the face

286 THE COLLECTED WORKS

of the building, rang at a smaller door emitt-
ing a dimmer ray that came from within,
through the fanlight, and expended itself
incuriously overhead. The door was opened
by no less a personage than the great Mr. Til-
body himself. Observing his visitor, who at
once uncovered, and somewhat shortened the
radius of the permanent curvature of his back,
the great man gave visible token of neither
surprise nor displeasure. Mr. Tilbody was,
indeed, in an uncommonly good humor, a
phenomenon ascribable doubtless to the cheer-
ful influence of the season; for this was Christ-
mas Eve, and the morrow would be that
blessed 365th part of the year that all Christ-
ian souls set apart for mighty feats of good-
ness and joy. Mr. Tilbody was so full of the
spirit of the season that his fat face and pale
blue eyes, whose ineffectual fire served to dis-
tinguish it from an untimely summer squash,
effused so genial a glow that it seemed a pity
that he could not have lain down in it, bask-
ing in the consciousness of his own identity.
He was hatted, booted, overcoated, and um-
brellaed, as became a person who was about to
expose himself to the night and the storm on
an errand of charity; for Mr. Tilbody had
just parted from his wife and children to go

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 287

" down town " and purchase the wherewithal
to confirm the annual falsehood about the
hunch-bellied saint who frequents the chim-
neys to reward little boys and girls who are
good, and especially truthful. So he did not
invite the old man in, but saluted him cheer-
ily:

" Hello! just in time; a moment later and
you would have missed me. Come, I have
no time to waste; we'll walk a little way to-
gether."

" Thank you," said the old man, upon
whose thin and white but not ignoble face the
light from the open door showed an expres-
sion that was perhaps disappointment; "but
if the trustees — if my application "

"The trustees," Mr. Tilbody said, closing
more doors than one, and cutting off two kinds
of light, " have agreed that your application
disagrees with them."

Certain sentiments are inappropriate to
Christmastide, but Humor, like Death, has all
seasons for his own.

"Oh, my God!" cried the old man, in so
thin and husky a tone that the invocation was
anything but impressive, and to at least one
of his two auditors sounded, indeed, somewhat
ludicrous. To the Other — but that is a mat-

288 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ter which laymen are devoid of the light to
expound.

"Yes," continued Mr. Tilbody, accom-
modating his gait to that of his companion,
who was mechanically, and not very success-
fully, retracing the track that he had made
through the snow; "they have decided that,
under the circumstances — under the very
peculiar circumstances, you understand — it
would be inexpedient to admit you. As
superintendent and ex officio secretary of the
honorable board" — as Mr. Tilbody "read
his title clear" the magnitude of the big
building, seen through its veil of falling snow,
appeared to suffer somewhat in comparison —
" it is my duty to inform you that, in the words
of Deacon Byram, the chairman, your pres-
ence in the Home would — under the circum-
stances— be peculiarly embarrassing. I felt it
my duty to submit to the honorable board the
statement that you made to me yesterday of
your needs, your physical condition, and the
trials which it has pleased Providence to send
upon you in your very proper effort to present
your claims in person; but, after careful, and
I may say prayerful, consideration of your
case — with something too, I trust, of the large
charitableness appropriate to the season — it
was decided that we would not be justified in

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 289

doing anything likely to impair the usefulness
of the institution intrusted (under Provi-
dence) to our care."

They had now passed out of the grounds;
the street lamp opposite the gate was dimly
visible through the snow. Already the old
man's former track was obliterated, and he
seemed uncertain as to which way he should
go. Mr. Tilbody had drawn a little away
from him, but paused and turned half toward
him, apparently reluctant to forego the con-
tinuing opportunity.

"Under the circumstances," he resumed,
"the decision "

But the old man was inaccessible to the
suasion of his verbosity; he had crossed the
street into a vacant lot and was going forward,
rather deviously toward nowhere in particular
— which, he having nowhere in particular to
go to, was not so reasonless a proceeding as it
looked.

And that is how it happened that the next
morning, when the church bells of all Gray-
ville were ringing with an added unction ap-
propriate to the day, the sturdy little son of
Deacon Byram, breaking a way through the
snow to the place of worship, struck his foot
against the body of Amasa Abersush, philan-
thropist.

290 THE COLLECTED WORKS

A WATCHER BY THE DEAD

IN an upper room of an unoccupied dwell-
ing in the part of San Francisco known as
North Beach lay the body of a man, un-
der a sheet. The hour was near nine in
the evening; the room was dimly lighted by a
single candle. Although the weather was
warm, the two windows, contrary to the cus-
tom which gives the dead plenty of air, were
closed and the blinds drawn down. The
furniture of the room consisted of but three
pieces — an arm-chair, a small reading-stand
supporting the candle, and a long kitchen
table, supporting the body of the man. All
these, as also the corpse, seemed to have been
recently brought in, for an observer, had there
been one, would have seen that all were free
from dust, whereas everything else in the room
was pretty thickly coated with it, and there
were cobwebs in the angles of the walls.

Under the sheet the outlines of the body
could be traced, even the features, these hav-
ing that unnaturally sharp definition which

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 291

seems to belong to faces of the dead, but is
really characteristic of those only that have
been wasted by disease. From the silence of
the room one would rightly have inferred
that it was not in the front of the house, fac-
ing a street. It really faced nothing but a
high breast of rock, the rear of the building
being set into a hill.

As a neighboring church clock was striking
nine with an indolence which seemed to imply
such an indifference to the flight of time that
one could hardly help wondering why it took
the trouble to strike at all, the single door of
the room was opened and a man entered, ad-
vancing toward the body. As he did so the
door closed, apparently of its own volition;
there was a grating, as of a key turned with
difficulty, and the snap of the lock bolt as it
shot into its socket. A sound of retiring foot-
steps in the passage outside ensued, and the
man was to all appearance a prisoner. Ad-
vancing to the table, he stood a moment look-
ing down at the body; then with a slight shrug
of the shoulders walked over to one of the
windows and hoisted the blind. The dark-
ness outside was absolute, the panes were cov-
ered with dust, but by wiping this away he
could see that the window was fortified with

292 THE COLLECTED WORKS

strong iron bars crossing it within a few inches
of the glass and imbedded in the masonry on
each side. He examined the other window.
It was the same. He manifested no great
curiosity in the matter, did not even so much
as raise the sash. If he was a prisoner he was
apparently a tractable one. Having com-
pleted his examination of the room, he seated
himself in the arm-chair, took a book from
his pocket, drew the stand with its candle
alongside and began to read.

The man was young — not more than thirty
^ — dark in complexion, smooth-shaven, with
brown hair. His face was thin and high-
nosed, with a broad forehead and a "firm-
ness" of the chin and jaw which is said by
those having it to denote resolution. The
eyes were gray and steadfast, not moving ex-
cept with definitive purpose. They were now
for the greater part of the time fixed upon his
book, but he occasionally withdrew them and
turned them to the body on the table, not, ap-
parently, from any dismal fascination which
under such circumstances it might be sup-
posed to exercise upon even a courageous per-
son, nor with a conscious rebellion against the
contrary influence which might dominate a
timid one. He looked at it as if in his read-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 293

ing he had come upon something recalling
him to a sense of his surroundings. Clearly
this watcher by the dead was discharging his
trust with intelligence and composure, as be-
came him.

After reading for perhaps a half-hour he
seemed to come to the end of a chapter and
quietly laid away the book. He then rose and
taking the reading-stand from the floor
carried it into a corner of the room near one
of the windows, lifted the candle from it and
returned to the empty fireplace before which
he had been sitting.

A moment later he walked over to the body
on the table, lifted the sheet and turned it
back from the head, exposing a mass of dark
hair and a thin face-cloth, beneath which the
features showed with even sharper definition
than before. Shading his eyes by interposing
his free hand between them and the candle, he
stood looking at his motionless companionwith
a serious and tranquil regard. Satisfied with
his inspection, he pulled the sheet over the
face again and returning to the chair, took
some matches off the candlestick, put them in
the side pocket of his sack-coat and sat down.
He then lifted the candle from its socket and
looked at it critically, as if calculating how

294 THE COLLECTED WORKS

long it would last. It was barely two inches
long; in another hour he would be in dark-
ness. He replaced it in the candlestick and
blew it out.

11

In a physician's office in Kearny Street
three men sat about a table, drinking punch
and smoking. It was late in the evening, al-
most midnight, indeed, and there had been no
lack of punch. The gravest of the three, Dr.
Helberson, was the host — it was in his rooms
they sat. He was about thirty years of age;
the others were even younger; all were
physicians.

" The superstitious awe with which the liv-
ing regard the dead," said Dr. Helberson, " is
hereditary and incurable. One needs no
more be ashamed of it than of the fact that
he inherits, for example, an incapacity for
mathematics, or a tendency to lie."

The others laughed. " Oughtn't a man to be
ashamed to lie?" asked the youngest of the
three, who was in fact a medical student not
yet graduated.

"My dear Harper, I said nothing about
that. The tendency to lie is one thing ; lying
is another."

"But do you think," said the third man,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 295

"that this superstitious feeling, this fear of
the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is
universal? I am myself not conscious of it."

" Oh, but it is ^ in your system ' for all that,"
replied Helberson; "it needs only the right
conditions — what Shakespeare calls the * con-
federate season' — to manifest itself in some
very disagreeable way that will open your
eyes. Physicians and soldiers are of course
more nearly free from it than others."

" Physicians and soldiers ! — why don't you
add hangmen and headsmen? Let us have in
all the assassin classes."

" No, my dear Mancher ; the juries will not
let the public executioners acquire sufficient
familiarity with death to be altogether un-
moved by it."

Young Harper, who had been helping him-
self to a fresh cigar at the sideboard, resumed
his seat. " What would you consider condi-
tions under which any man of woman born
would become insupportably conscious of his
share of our common weakness in this re-
gard? " he asked, rather verbosely.

"Well, I should say that if a man were
locked up all night with a corpse — alone — in
a dark room — of a vacant house — with no bed
covers to pull over his head — and lived

296 THE COLLECTED WORKS

through it without going altogether mad, he
might justly boast himself not of woman born,
nor yet, like Macduff, a product of Caesarean
section."

" I thought you never would finish piling
up conditions," said Harper, "but I know a
man who is neither a physician nor a soldier
who will accept them all, for any stake you
like to name."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Jarette — a stranger here;
comes from my town in New York. I have
no money to back him, but he will back him-
self with loads of it."

" How do you know that? "

" He would rather bet than eat. As for
fear — I dare say he thinks it some cutaneous
disorder, or possibly a particular kind of relig-
ious heresy."

"What does he look like?" Helberson
was evidently becoming interested.

" Like Mancher, here — might be his twin
brother."

" I accept the challenge," said Helberson,
promptly.

"Awfully obliged to you for the compli-
ment, I'm sure," drawled Mancher, who was
growing sleepy. "Can't I get into this?"

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 297

" Not against me," Helberson said. " I
don't want your money."

"All right," said Mancher; " Pil be the
corpse."

The others laughed.

The outcome of this crazy conversation we
have seen.

Ill

In extinguishing his meagre allowance of
candle Mr. Jarette's object was to preserve it
against some unforeseen need. He may have
thought, too, or half thought, that the dark-
ness would be no worse at one time than an-
other, and if the situation became insupport-
able it would be better to have a means of
relief, or even release. At any rate it was
wise to have a little reserve of light, even if
only to enable him to look at his watch.

No sooner had he blown out the candle and
set it on the floor at his side than he settled
himself comfortably in the arm-chair, leaned
back and closed his eyes, hoping and expect-
ing to sleep. In this he was disappointed; he
had never in his life felt less sleepy, and in a
few minutes he gave up the attempt. But
what could he do? He could not go groping
about in absolute darkness at the risk of
bruising himself — at the risk, too, of blunder-

298 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ing against the table and rudely disturbing
the dead. We all recognize their right to lie
at rest, with immunity from all that is harsh
and violent. Jarette almost succeeded in
making himself believe that considerations of
this kind restrained him from risking the col-
lision and fixed him to the chair.

While thinking of this matter he fancied
that he heard a faint sound in the direction of
the table — what kind of sound he could hardly
have explained. He did not turn his head.
Why should he — in the darkness? But he
listened — ^why should he not? And listening
he grew giddy and grasped the arms of the
chair for support. There was a strange ring-
ing in his ears; his head seemed bursting; his
chest was oppressed by the constriction of his
clothing. He wondered why it was so, and
whether these were symptoms of fear. Then,
with a long and strong expiration, his chest
appeared to collapse, and with the great gasp
with which he refilled his exhausted lungs the
vertigo left him and he knew that so intently
had he listened that he had held his breath al-
most to suffocation. The revelation was
vexatious; he arose, pushed away the chair
with his foot and strode to the centre of the
room. But one does not stride far in dark-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 299

ness ; he began to grope, and finding the wall
followed it to an angle, turned, followed it
past the two windows and there in another
corner came into violent contact with the
reading-standj overturning it. It ^made a
clatter that startled him. He was annoyed.
" How the devil could I have forgotten where
it was?" he muttered, and groped his way
along the third wall to the fireplace. " I must
put things to rights," said he, feeling the floor
for the candle.

Having recovered that, he lighted it and
instantly turned his eyes to the table, where,
naturally, nothing had undergone any change.
The reading-stand lay unobserved upon the
floor: he had forgotten to "put it to rights."
He looked all about the room, dispersing the
deeper shadows by movements of the candle in
his hand, and crossing over to the door tested
it by turning and pulling the knob with all his
strength. It did not yield and this seemed to
afford him a certain satisfaction; indeed, he
secured it more firmly by a bolt which he had
not before observed. Returning to his chair,
he looked at his watch; it was half-past nine.
With a start of surprise he held the watch at
his ear. It had not stopped. The candle
was now visibly shorter. He again extin-

300 THE COLLECTED WORKS

guished it, placing it on the floor at his side
as before.

Mr. Jarette was not at his ease; he was dis-
tinctly dissatisfied with his surroundings, and
with himself for being so. " What have I to
fear?" he thought. "This is ridiculous and
disgraceful; I will not be so great a fool."
But courage does not come of saying, " I will
be courageous," nor of recognizing its appro-
priateness to the occasion. The more Jarette
condemned himself, the more reason he gave
himself for condemnation; the greater the
number of variations which he played upon
the simple theme of the harmlessness of the
dead, the more insupportable grew the discord
of his emotions. "What!" he cried aloud in
the anguish of his spirit, "what! shall I, who
have not a shade of superstition in my nature
— I, who have no belief in immortality — I,
who know (and never more clearly than now)
that the after-life is the dream of a desire —
shall I lose at once my bet, my honor and my
self-respect, perhaps my reason, because cer-
tain savage ancestors dwelling in caves and
burrows conceived the monstrous notion that
the dead walk by night? — that " Dis-
tinctly, unmistakably, Mr. Jarette heard be-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 301

hind him a light, soft sound of footfalls, de-
liberate, regular, successively nearer!

IV

Just before daybreak the next morning Dr.
Helberson and his young friend Harper were
driving slowly through the streets of North
Beach in the doctor's coupe.

*' Have you still the confidence of youth in
the courage or stolidity of your friend? " said
the elder man. " Do you believe that I have
lost this wager?"

" I know you have," replied the other, with
enfeebling emphasis.

"Well, upon my soul, I hope so."

It was spoken earnestly, almost solemnly.
There was a silence for a few moments.

" Harper," the doctor resumed, looking
very serious in the shifting half-lights that
entered the carriage as they passed the street
lamps, " I don't feel altogether comfortable
about this business. If your friend had not
irritated me by the contemptuous manner in
which he treated my doubt of his endurance
— a purely physical quality — and by the cool
incivility of his suggestion that the corpse be
that of a physician, I should not have gone

302 THE COLLECTED WORKS

on with it. If anything should happen we
are ruined, as I fear we deserve to be."

"What can happen? Even if the matter
should be taking a serious turn, of which I
am not at all afraid, Mancher has only to
* resurrect ' himself and explain matters.
With a genuine ^ subject' from the dissecting-
room, or one of your late patients, it might be
difiPerent."

Dr. Mancher, then, had been as good as his
promise; he was the "corpse."

Dr. Helberson was silent for a long time,
as the carriage, at a snail's pace, crept along
the same street it had traveled two or three
times already. Presently he spoke: "Well,
let us hope that Mancher, if he has had to
rise from the dead, has been discreet about it.
A mistake in that might make matters worse
instead of better."

"Yes," said Harper, "Jarette would kill
him. But, Doctor" — looking at his watch as
the carriage passed a gas lamp — " it is nearly
four o'clock at last."

A moment later the two had quitted the
vehicle and were walking briskly toward the
long-unoccupied house belonging to the doc-
tor in which they had immured Mr. Jarette
in accordance with the terms of the mad

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 303

wager. As they neared it they met a man
running. " Can you tell me," he cried, sud-
denly checking his speed, " where I can find
a doctor?"

"What's the matter?" Helberson asked,
non-committal.

" Go and see for yourself," said the man,
resuming his running.

They hastened on. Arrived at the house,
they saw several persons entering in haste and
excitement. In some of the dwellings near
by and across the way the chamber windows
were thrown up, showing a protrusion of
heads. All heads were asking questions, none
heeding the questions of the others. A few
of the windows with closed blinds were illum-
inated; the inmates of those rooms were
dressing to come down. Exactly opposite the
door of the house that they sought a street
lamp threw a yellow, insufficient light upon
the scene, seeming to say that it could disclose
a good deal more if it wished. Harper
paused at the door and laid a hand upon his
companion's arm. " It is all up with us, Doc-
tor," he said in extreme agitation, which con-
trasted strangely with his free-and-easy
words; "the game has gone against us all.
Let's not go in there; I'm for lying low."

804 THE COLLECTED WORKS

"rm a physician," said Dr. Helberson,
calmly; "there may be need of one."

They mounted the doorsteps and were about
to enter. The door was open ; the street lamp
opposite lighted the passage into which it
opened. It was full of men. Some had as-
cended the stairs at the farther end, and,
denied admittance above, waited for better
fortune. All were talking, none listening.
Suddenly, on the upper landing there was a
great commotion; a man had sprung out of a
door and was breaking away from those en-
deavoring to detain him. Down through the
mass of affrighted idlers he came, pushing
them aside, flattening them against the wall
on one side, or compelling them to cling to the
rail on the other, clutching them by the throat,
striking them savagely, thrusting them back
down the stairs and walking over the fallen.
His clothing was in disorder, he was without
a hat. His eyes, wild and restless, had in
them something more terrifying than his ap-
parently superhuman strength. His face,
smooth-shaven, was bloodless, his hair frost-
white.

As the crowd at the foot of the stairs, hav-
ing more freedom, fell away to let him pass

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 805

Harper sprang forward. " Jarette ! Jarette ! "
he cried.

Dr. Helberson seized Harper by the collar
and dragged him back. The man looked
into their faces without seeming to see them
and sprang through the door, down the steps,
into the street, and away. A stout policeman,
who had had inferior success in conquering
his way down the stairway, followed a mo-
ment later and started in pursuit, all the heads
in the windows — those of women and children
now — screaming in guidance.

The stairway being now partly cleared,
most of the crowd having rushed down to
the street to observe the flight and pursuit, Dr.
Helberson mounted to the landing, followed
by Harper. At a door in the upper passage
an officer denied them admittance. " We are
physicians," said the doctor, and they passed
in. The room was full of men, dimly seen,
crowded about a table. The newcomers
edged their way forward and looked over the
shoulders of those in the front rank. Upon
the table, the lower limbs covered with a
sheet, lay the body of a man, brilliantly illum-
inated by the beam of a bull's-eye lantern
held by a policeman standing at the feet. The

306 THE COLLECTED WORKS

others, excepting those near the head — the of-
ficer himself — all were in darkness. The face
of the body showed yellow, repulsive, hor-
rible I The eyes were partly open and up-
turned and the jaw fallen; traces of froth de-
filed the lips, the chin, the cheeks. A tall
man, evidently a doctor, bent over the body
with his hand thrust under the shirt front.
He withdrew it and placed two fingers in the
open mouth. " This man has been about six
hours dead," said he. " It is a case for the
coroner."

He drew a card from his pocket, handed it
to the officer and made his way toward the
door.

" Clear the room — out, all I " said the offic-
er, sharply, and the body disappeared as if i
it had been snatched away, as shifting the
lantern he flashed its beam of light here and
there against the faces of the crowd. The
effect was amazing! The men, blinded, con-
fused, almost terrified, made a tumultuous
rush for the door, pushing, crowding, and
tumbling over one another as they fled, like
the hosts of Night before the shafts of Apollo.
Upon the struggling, trampling mass the offi-
cer poured his light without pity and without
cessation. Caught in the current, Helberson

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 307

and Harper were swept out of the room and
cascaded down the stairs into the street.

" Good God, Doctor! did I not tell you that
Jarette would kill him? " said Harper, as soon
as they were clear of the crowd.

" I believe you did," replied the other,
without apparent emotion.

They walked on in silence, block after
block. Against the graying east the dwell-
ings of the hill tribes showed in silhouette.
The familiar milk wagon was already astir
in the streets; the baker's man would soon
come upon the scene; the newspaper carrier
was abroad in the land.

" It strikes me, youngster," said Helberson,
" that you and I have been having too much
of the morning air lately. It is unwhole-
some ; we need a change. What do you say to
a tour in Europe?"

"When?"

" I'm not particular. I should suppose
that four o'clock this afternoon would be early
enough."

" I'll meet you at the boat," said Harper.

V

Seven years afterward these two men sat
upon a bench in Madison Square, New York,

308 THE COLLECTED WORKS

in familiar conversation. Another man, who
had been observing them for some time, him-
self unobserved, approached and, courteously
lifting his hat from locks as white as frost,
said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but
when you have killed a man by coming to life,
it is best to change clothes with him, and at
the first opportunity make a break for liberty."

Helberson and Harper exchanged signific-
ant glances. They were obviously amused.
The former then looked the stranger kindly in
the eye and replied:

" That has always been my plan. I entirely
agree with you as to its advant "

He stopped suddenly, rose and went white.
He stared at the man, open-mouthed; he
trembled visibly.

"Ah!" said the stranger, "I see that you
are indisposed, Doctor. If you cannot treat
yourself Dr. Harper can do something for
you, I am sure."

"Who the devil are you?" said Harper,
bluntly.

The stranger came nearer and, bending
toward them, said in a whisper: " I call my-
self Jarette sometimes, but I don't mind tell-
ing you, for old friendship, that I am Dr.
William Mancher,"

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 309

The revelation brought Harper to his feet.
"Mancher!" he cried; and Helberson added:
"It is true, by God!"

"Yes," said the stranger, smiling vaguely,
" it is true enough, no doubt."

He hesitated and seemed to be trying to re-
call something, then began humming a
popular air. He had apparently forgotten
their presence.

"Look here, Mancher," said the elder of
the two, " tell us just what occurred that night
— to Jarette, you know."

" Oh, yes, about Jarette," said the other.
" It's odd I should have neglected to tell you
• — I tell it so often. You see I knew, by over-
hearing him talking to himself, that he was
pretty badly frightened. So I couldn't resist
the temptation to come to life and have a bit
of fun out of him — I couldn't really. That
was all right, though certainly I did not think
he would take it so seriously; I did not, truly.
And afterward — well, it was a tough job
changing places with him, and then — damn
you! you didn't let me out!"

Nothing could exceed the ferocity with
which these last words were delivered. Both
men stepped back in alarm.

"We? — ^why — why," Helberson stam-

310 THE COLLECTED WORKS

mered, losing his self-possession utterly, "we
had nothing to do with it."

" Didn't I say you were Drs. Hell-born and
Sharper?" inquired the man, laughing.

" My name is Helberson, yes; and this gen-
tleman is Mr. Harper," replied the former,
reassured by the laugh. " But we are not
physicians now; we are — ^well, hang it, old
man, we are gamblers."

And that was the truth.

"A very good profession — very good, in-
deed ; and, by the way, I hope Sharper here
paid over Jarette's money like an honest
stakeholder. A very good and honorable pro-
fession," he repeated, thoughtfully, moving
carelessly away; "but I stick to the old one.
I am High Supreme Medical Officer of the
Bloomingdale Asylum; it is my duty to cure
the superintendent."

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 311

THE MAN AND THE SNAKE

It is of veritabyll report^ and attested of so many that
there be nowe of wyse and learned none to gaynsaye it,
that y® serpente hys eye hath a magnetick propertie that
whosoe falleth into its svasion is drawn forwards in
despyte of his wille, and perisheth miserabyll by y®
creature hys byte.

STRETCHED at ease upon a sofa, in
gown and slippers, Harker Brayton
smiled as he read the foregoing sen-
tence in old Morryster's Marvells of
Science, *^The only marvel in the matter,"
he said to himself, "is that the wise and
learned in Morryster's day should have be-
lieved such nonsense as is rejected by most of
even the ignorant in ours."

A train of reflection followed — for Brayton
was a man of thought — and he unconsciously
lowered his book without altering the direc-
tion of his eyes. As soon as the volume had
gone below the line of sight, something in an
obscure corner of the room recalled his atten-
tion to his surroundings. What he saw, in
the shadow under his bed, was two small

ai2 THE COLLECTED WORKS

points of light, apparently about an inch
apart. They might have been reflections of
the gas jet above him, in metal nail heads ; he
gave them but little thought and resumed his
reading. A moment later something — some
impulse which it did not occur to him to
analyze — impelled him to lower the book
again and seek for what he saw before. The
points of light were still there. They seemed
to have become brighter than before, shining
with a greenish lustre that he had not at first
observed. He thought, too, that they might
have moved a trifle — were somewhat nearer.
They were still too much in shadow, however,
to reveal their nature and origin to an indolent
attention, and again he resumed his reading.
Suddenly something in the text suggested a
thought that made him start and drop the
book for the third time to the side of the sofa,
whence, escaping from his hand, it fell
sprawling to the floor, back upward. Bray-
ton, half-risen, was staring intently into the
obscurity beneath the bed, where the points of
light shone with, it seemed to him, an added
fire. His attention was now fully aroused, his
gaze eager and imperative. It disclosed, al-
most directly under the foot-rail of the bed,
the coils of a large serpent — the points of

OP AMBROSE BIERCE 313

light were its eyesl Its horrible head, thrust
flatly forth from the innermost coil and rest-
ing upon the outermost, was directed straight
toward him, the definition of the wide, brutal
jaw and the idiot-like forehead serving to
show the direction of its malevolent gaze.
The eyes were no longer merely luminous
points ; they looked into his own with a mean-
ing, a malign significance.

II

A snake in a bedroom of a modern city
dwelling of the better sort is, happily, not so
common a phenomenon as to make explana-
tion altogether needless. Harker Brayton, a
bachelor of thirty-five, a scholar, idler and
something of an athlete, rich, popular and of
sound health, had returned to San Francisco
from all manner of remote and unfamiliar
countries. His tastes, always a trifle luxuri-
ous, had taken on an added exuberance from
long privation; and the resources of even the
Castle Hotel being inadequate to their per-
fect gratification, he had gladly accepted the
hospitality of his friend, Dr. Druring, the dis-
tinguished scientist. Dr. Druring's house, a
large, old-fashioned one in what is now an
obscure quarter of the city, had an outer and

314 THE COLLECTED WORKS

visible aspect of proud reserve. It plainly
would not associate with the contiguous ele-
ments of its altered environment, and ap-
peared to have developed some of the eccen-
tricities which come of isolation. One of
these was a " wing," conspicuously irrelevant
in point of architecture, and no less rebellious
in matter of purpose; for it was a combination
of laboratory, menagerie and museum. It
was here that the doctor indulged the scien-
tific side of his nature in the study of such
forms of animal life as engaged his interest
and comforted his taste — ^which, it must be
confessed, ran rather to the lower types. For
one of the higher nimbly and sweetly to re-
commend itself unto his gentle senses it had at
least to retain certain rudimentary character-
istics allying it to such " dragons of the
prime" as toads and snakes. His scientific
sympathies were distinctly reptilian; he loved
nature's vulgarians and described himself as
the Zola of zoology. His wife and daughters
not having the advantage to share his enlight-
ened curiosity regarding the works and ways
of our ill-starred fellow-creatures, were with
needless austerity excluded from what he
called the Snakery and doomed to companion-
ship with their own kind, though to soften the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 315

rigors of their lot he had permitted them out
of his great wealth to outdo the reptiles in the
gorgeousness of their surroundings and to
shine with a superior splendor.

Architecturally and in point of " furnish-
ing" the Snakery had a severe simplicity be-
fitting the humble circumstances of its occu-
pants, many of whom, indeed, could not safely
have been intrusted with the liberty that is
necessary to the full enjoyment of luxury, for
they had the troublesome peculiarity of being
alive. In their own apartments, however,
they were under as little personal restraint as
was compatible with their protection from the
baneful habit of swallowing one another; and,
as Brayton had thoughtfully been apprised, it
was more than a tradition that some of them
had at divers times been found in parts of the
premises where it would have embarrassed
them to explain their presence. Despite the
Snakery and its uncanny associations — to
which, indeed, he gave little attention — Bray-
ton found life at the Druring mansion very
much to his mind.

Ill

Beyond a smart shock of surprise and a
shudder of mere loathing Mr. Brayton was
not greatly affected. His first thought was to

ai6 THE COLLECTED WORKS

ring the call bell and bring a servant; but
although the bell cord dangled within easy
reach he made no movement toward it; it had
occurred to his mind that the act might sub-
ject him to the suspicion of fear, which he
certainly did not feel. He was more keenly
conscious of the incongruous nature of the sit-
uation than affected by its perils ; it was revolt-
ing, but absurd.

The reptile was of a species with which
Brayton was unfamiliar. Its length he could
only conjecture ; the body at the largest visible
part seemed about as thick as his forearm.
In what way was it dangerous, if in any way?
Was it venomous? Was it a constrictor? His
knowledge of nature's danger signals did not
enable him to say; he had never deciphered
the code.

If not dangerous the creature was at least
offensive. It was de trop — "matter out of
place " — an impertinence. The gem was un-
worthy of the setting. Even the barbarous
taste of our time and country, which had
loaded the walls of the room with pictures,
the floor with furniture and the furniture with
bric-a-brac, had not quite fitted the place for
this bit of the savage life of the jungle. Be-
sides— insupportable thought ! — the exhala-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 317

tions of its breath mingled with the atmos-
phere which he himself was breathing.

These thoughts shaped themselves with
greater or less definition in Brayton's mind
and begot action. The process is what we call
consideration and decision. It is thus that
we are wise and unwise. It is thus that the
withered leaf in an autumn breeze shows
greater or less intelligence than its fellows,
falling upon the land or upon the lake. The
secret of human action is an open one : some-
thing contracts our muscles. Does it matter
if we give to the preparatory molecular
changes the name of will?

Bray ton rose to his feet and prepared to
back softly away from the snake, without dis-
turbing it if possible, and through the door.
Men retire so from the presence of the great,
for greatness is power and power is a menace.
He knew that he could walk backward with-
out error. Should the monster follow, the
taste which had plastered the walls with
paintings had consistently supplied a rack of
murderous Oriental weapons from which he
could snatch one to suit the occasion. In the
mean time the snake's eyes burned with a more
pitiless malevolence than before.

Bray ton lifted his right foot free of the

318 THE COLLECTED WORKS

floor to step backward. That moment he felt
a strong aversion to doing so.

"I am accounted brave,'' he thought; "is
bravery, then, no more than pride? Because
there are none to witness the shame shall I
retreat? "

He was steadying himself with his right
hand upon the back of a chair, his foot sus-
pended.

"Nonsense!" he said aloud; "I am not so
great a coward as to fear to seem to myself
afraid."

He lifted the foot a little higher by slightly
bending the knee and thrust it sharply to the
floor — an inch in front of the other! He could
not think how that occurred. A trial with the
left foot had the same result; it was again in
advance of the right. The hand upon the
chair back was grasping it; the arm was
straight, reaching somewhat backward. One
might have said that he was reluctant to lose
his hold. The snake's malignant head was
still thrust forth from the inner coil as before,
the neck level. It had not moved, but its eyes
were now electric sparks, radiating an infinity
of luminous needles.

The man had an ashy pallor. Again he took
a step forward, and another, partly dragging

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 319

the chair, which when finally released fell
upon the floor with a crash. The man
groaned; the snake made neither sound nor
motion, but its eyes were two dazzling suns.
The reptile itself was wholly concealed by
them. They gave off enlarging rings of rich
and vivid colors, which at their greatest ex-
pansion successively vanished like soap-bub-
bles; they seemed to approach his very face,
and anon were an immeasurable distance
away. He heard, somewhere, the continuous
throbbing of a great drum, with desultory
bursts of far music, inconceivably sweet, like
the tones of an aeolian harp. He knew it for
the sunrise melody of Memnon's statue, and
thought he stood in the Nileside reeds hearing
with exalted sense that immortal anthem
through the silence of the centuries.

The music ceased; rather, it became by
insensible degrees the distant roll of a retreat-
ing thunder-storm. A landscape, glittering
with sun and rain, stretched before him,
arched with a vivid rainbow framing in its
giant curve a hundred visible cities. In the
middle distance a vast serpent, wearing a
crown, reared its head out of its voluminous
convolutions and looked at him with his dead
mother's eyes. Suddenly this enchanting land-

320 THE COLLECTED WORKS

scape seemed to rise swiftly upward like the
drop scene at a theatre, and vanished in a
blank. Something struck him a hard blow
upon the face and breast. He had fallen to
the floor; the blood ran from his broken nose
and his bruised lips. For a time he was dazed
and stunned, and lay with closed eyes, his face
against the floor. In a few moments he had
recovered, and then knew that this fall, by
withdrawing his eyes, had broken the spell
that held him. He felt that now, by keeping
his gaze averted, he would be able to retreat.
But the thought of the serpent within a few
feet of his head, yet unseen — perhaps in the
very act of springing upon him and throwing
its coils about his throat — was too horrible!
He lifted his head, stared again into those
baleful eyes and was again in bondage.

The snake had not moved and appeared
somewhat to have lost its power upon the
imagination; the gorgeous illusions of a few
moments before were not repeated. Beneath
that flat and brainless brow its black, beady
eyes simply glittered as at first with an ex-
pression unspeakably malignant. It was as if
the creature, assured of its triumph, had de-
termined to practise no more alluring wiles.

Now ensued a fearful scene. The man,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 321

prone upon the floor, within a yard of his
enemy, raised the upper part of his body upon
his elbows, his head thrown back, his legs
extended to their full length. His face was
white between its stains of blood; his eyes
were strained open to their uttermost expan-
sion. There was froth upon his lips; it
dropped off in flakes. Strong convulsions ran
through his body, making almost serpentile
undulations. He bent himself at the waist,
shifting his legs from side to side. And every
movement left him a little nearer to the snake.
He thrust his hands forward to brace him-
self back, yet constantly advanced upon his

elbows.

IV

Dr. Druring and his wife sat in the library.
The scientist was in rare good humor.

" I have just obtained by exchange with
another collector,'' he said, "a splendid
specimen of the ophiophagus/'

"And what may that be?" the lady in-
quired with a somewhat languid interest.

" Why, bless my soul, what profound ignor-
ance! My dear, a man who ascertains after
marriage that his wife does not know Greek
is entitled to a divorce. The ophiophagus is
a snake that eats other snakes."

322 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" I hope it will eat all yours," she said,
absently shifting the lamp. " But how does it
get the other snakes? By charming them, I
suppose."

" That is just like you, dear," said the doc-
tor, with an affectation of petulance. " You
know how irritafing to me is any allusion to
that vulgar superstition about a snake's
power of fascination."

The conversation was interrupted by a
mighty cry, which rang through the silent
house like the voice of a demon shouting in a
tomb I Again and yet again it sounded, with
terrible distinctness. They sprang to their
feet, the man confused, the lady pale and
speechless with fright. Almost before the
echoes of the last cry had died away the doctor
was out of the room, springing up the stairs
two steps at a time. In the corridor in front
of Brayton's chamber he met some servants
who had come from the upper floor. To-
gether they rushed at the door without knock-
ing. It was unfastened and gave way. Bray-
ton lay upon his stomach on the floor, dead.
His head and arms were partly concealed
under the foot rail of the bed. They pulled
the body away, turning it upon the back. The
face was daubed with blood and froth, the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 323

eyes were wide open, staring — a dreadful
sight!

" Died in a fit," said the scientist, bending
his knee and placing his hand upon the heart.
While in that position, he chanced to look
under the bed. "Good God!" he added,
"how did this thing get in here? "

He reached under the bed, pulled out the
snake and flung it, still coiled, to the center
of the room, whence with a harsh, shuffling
sound it slid across the polished floor till
stopped by the wall, where it lay without
motion. It was a stuffed snake; its eyes were
two shoe buttons.

324 THE COLLECTED WORKS

A HOLY TERROR

THERE was an entire lack of interest
in the latest arrival at Hurdy-
Gurdy. He was not even christened
with the picturesquely descriptive
nick-name which is so frequently a mining
camp's word of welcome to the newcomer. In
almost any other camp thereabout this circum-
stance would of itself have secured him some
such appellation as "The White-headed Co-
nundrum," or "No Sarvey" — an expression
naively supposed to suggest to quick intellig-
ences the Spanish quien sabe. He came with-
out provoking a ripple of concern upon the
social surface of Hurdy-Gurdy — a place
which to the general Californian contempt of
men's personal history superadded a local
indifference of its own. The time was long
past when it was of any importance who came
there, or if anybody came. No one was liv-
ing at Hurdy-Gurdy.

Two years before, the camp had boasted a
stirring population of two or three thousand
males and not fewer than a dozen females.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 325

A majority of the former had done a few
weeks' earnest work in demonstrating, to the
disgust of the latter, the singularly mendacious
character of the person whose ingenious tales
of rich gold deposits had lured them thither —
work, by the way, in which there was as little
mental satisfaction as pecuniary profit; for a
bullet from the pistol of a public-spirited
citizen had put that imaginative gentleman
beyond the reach of aspersion on the third
day of the camp's existence. Still, his fiction
had a certain foundation in fact, and many
had lingered a considerable time in and about
Hurdy-Gurdy, though now all had been long
gone.

But they had left ample evidence of their
sojourn. From the point where Injun Creek
falls into the Rio San Juan Smith, up along
both banks of the former into the canon
whence it emerges, extended a double row of
forlorn shanties that seemed about to fall
upon one another's neck to bewail their desola-
tion ; while about an equal number appeared
to have straggled up the slope on either hand
and perched themselves upon commanding
eminences, whence they craned forward to get
a good view of the affecting scene. Most of
these habitations were emaciated as by famine

326 THE COLLECTED WORKS

to the condition of mere skeletons, about
which clung unlovely tatters of what might
have been skin, but was really canvas. The
little valley itself, torn and gashed by pick
and shovel, was unhandsome with long, bend-
ing lines of decaying flume resting here and
there upon the summits of sharp ridges, and
stilting awkwardly across the intervals upon
unhewn poles. The whole place presented
that raw and forbidding aspect of arrested
development which is a new country's substi-
tute for the solemn grace of ruin wrought by
time. Wherever there remained a patch of
the original soil a rank overgrowth of weeds
and brambles had spread upon the scene, and
from its dank, unwholesome shades the visitor
curious in such matters might have obtained
numberless souvenirs of the camp's former
glory — fellowless boots mantled with green
mould and plethoric of rotting leaves; an
occasional old felt hat; desultory remnants of
a flannel shirt; sardine boxes inhumanly muti-
lated and a surprising profusion of black bot-
tles distributed with a truly catholic impar-
tiality, everywhere.

II

The man who had now rediscovered
Hurdy-Gurdy was evidently not curious as to

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 327

its archaeology. Nor, as he looked about him
upon the dismal evidences of wasted work and
broken hopes, their dispiriting significance
accentuated by the ironical pomp of a cheap
gilding by the rising sun, did he supplement
his sigh of weariness by one of sensibility. He
simply removed from the back of his tired
burro a miner's outfit a trifle larger than the
animal itself, picketed that creature and se-
lecting a hatchet from his kit moved off at
once across the dry bed of Injun Creek to the
top of a low, gravelly hill beyond.

Stepping across a prostrate fence of brush
and boards he picked up one of the latter,
split it into five parts and sharpened them at
one end. He then began a kind of search,
occasionally stooping to examine something
with close attention. At last his patient
scrutiny appeared to be rewarded with suc-
cess, for he suddenly erected his figure to its
full height, made a gesture of satisfaction,
pronounced the word " Scarry " and at once
strode away with long, equal steps, which
he counted. Then he stopped and drove one of
his stakes into the earth. He then looked
carefully about him, measured off a number
of paces over a singularly uneven ground and
hammered in another. Pacing off twice the

828 THE COLLECTED WORKS

distance at a right angle to his former course
he drove down a third, and repeating the
process sank home the fourth, and then a fifth.
This he split at the top and in the cleft in-
serted an old letter envelope covered with an
intricate system of pencil tracks. In short,
he staked off a hill claim in strict accordance
with the local mining laws of Hurdy-Gurdy
and put up the customary notice.

It is necessary to explain that one of the
adjuncts to Hurdy-Gurdy — one to which that
metropolis became afterward itself an adjunct
— was a cemetery. In the first week of the
camp's existence this had been thoughtfully
laid out by a committee of citizens. The day
after had been signalized by a debate between
two members of the committee, with reference
to a more eligible site, and on the third day
the necropolis was inaugurated by a double
funeral. As the camp had waned the cemet-
ery had waxed ; and long before the ultimate
inhabitant, victorious alike over the insidious
malaria and the forthright revolver, had
turned the tail of his pack-ass upon Injun
Creek the outlying settlement had become a
populous if not popular suburb. And now,
when the town was fallen into the sere and
yellow leaf of an unlovely senility, the grave-
yard— though somewhat marred by time and

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 329

circumstance, and not altogether exempt from
innovations in grammar and experiments in
orthography, to say nothing of the devastating
coyote — answered the humble needs of its
denizens with reasonable completeness. It
comprised a generous two acres of ground,
which with commendable thrift but needless
care had been selected for its mineral un-
worth, contained two or three skeleton trees
(one of which had a stout lateral branch from
which a weather-wasted rope still signific-
antly dangled), half a hundred gravelly
mounds, a score of rude headboards display-
ing the literary peculiarities above mentioned
and a struggling colony of prickly pears.
Altogether, God's Location, as with charac-
teristic reverence it had been called, could
justly boast of an indubitably superior quality
of desolation. It was in the most thickly set-
tled part of this interesting demesne that
Mr. Jefferson Doman staked off his claim. If
in the prosecution of his design he should
deem it expedient to remove any of the dead
they would have the right to be suitably re-
interred.

Ill

This Mr. Jefferson Doman was from Eliz-
abethtown. New Jersey, where six years be-
fore he had left his heart in the keeping of

330 THE COLLECTED WORKS

a golden-haired, demure-mannered young
woman named Mary Matthews, as collateral
security for his return to claim her hand.

" I just know you'll never get back alive —
you never do succeed in anything," was the
remark which illustrated Miss Matthews's
notion of what constituted success and, in-
ferentially, her view of the nature of encour-
agement. She added : " If you don't Til go to
California too. I can put the coins in little
bags as you dig them out."

This characteristically feminine theory of
auriferous deposits did not commend itself to
the masculine intelligence: it was Mr. Do-
man's belief that gold was found in a liquid
state. He deprecated her intent with consid-
erable enthusiasm, suppressed her sobs with
a light hand upon her mouth, laughed in her
eyes as he kissed away her tears, and with
a cheerful "Ta-ta" went to California to
labor for her through the long, loveless years,
with a strong heart, an alert hope and a stead-
fast fidelity that never for a moment forgot
what it was about. In the mean time, Miss
Matthews had granted a monopoly of her
humble talent for sacking up coins to Mr. Jo.
Seeman, of New York, gambler, by whom it
was better appreciated than her commanding

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 331

genius for unsacking and bestowing them
upon his local rivals. Of this latter aptitude,
indeed, he manifested his disapproval by an
act which secured him the position of clerk
of the laundry in the State prison, and for her
the sobriquet of "Split-faced Moll." At
about this time she wrote to Mr. Doman a
touching letter of renunciation, inclosing her
photograph to prove that she had no longer
a right to indulge the dream of becoming
Mrs. Doman, and recounting so graphically
her fall from a horse that the staid "plug"
upon which Mr. Doman had ridden into Red
Dog to get the letter made vicarious atone-
ment under the spur all the way back to camp.
The letter failed in a signal way to accomplish
its object; the fidelity which had before been
to Mr. Doman a matter of love and duty was
thenceforth a matter of honor also; and the
photograph, showing the once pretty face
sadly disfigured as by the slash of a knife, was
duly instated in his affections and its more
comely predecessor treated with contumelious
neglect. On being informed of this. Miss
Matthews, it is only fair to say, appeared less
surprised than from the apparently low esti-
mate of Mr. Doman's generosity which the
tone of her former letter attested one would

332 THE COLLECTED WORKS

naturally have expected her to be. Soon after,
however, her letters grew infrequent, and then
ceased altogether.

But Mr. Doman had another correspond-
ent, Mr. Barney Bree, of Hurdy-Gurdy,
formerly of Red Dog. This gentleman, al-
though a notable figure among miners, was
not a miner. His knowledge of mining con-
sisted mainly in a marvelous command of its
slang, to which he made copious contributions,
enriching its vocabulary with a wealth of un-
common phrases more remarkable for their
aptness than their refinement, and which im-
pressed the unlearned "tenderfoot" with a
lively sense of the profundity of their invent-
or's acquirements. When not entertaining a
circle of admiring auditors from San Fran-
cisco or the East he could commonly be found
pursuing the comparatively obscure industry
of sweeping out the various dance houses and
purifying the cuspidors.

Barney had apparently but two passions in
life — love of Jefiferson Doman, who had once
been of some service to him, and love of
whisky, which certainly had not. He had
been among the first in the rush to Hurdy-
Gurdy, but had not prospered, and had sunk
by degrees to the position of grave digger.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 333

This was not a vocation, but Barney in a
desultory way turned his trembling hand to
it whenever some local misunderstanding at
the card table and his own partial recovery
from a prolonged debauch occurred coinci-
dently in point of time. One day Mr. Doman
received, at Red Dog, a letter with the simple
postmark, " Hurdy, Cal.," and being occupied
with another matter, carelessly thrust it into
a chink of his cabin for future perusal. Some
two years later it was accidentally dislodged
and he read it. It ran as follows : —

HuRDY^ June 6.

Friend Jeff: I've hit her hard in the boneyard.
She's blind and lousy. I'm on the diwy — that's me, and
mum's my lay till you toot. Yours, Barney.

P. S. — I've clayed her with Scarry.

With some knowledge of the general min-
ing camp argot and of Mr. Bree's private sys-
tem for the communication of ideas Mr.
Doman had no difficulty in understanding by
this uncommon epistle that Barney while per-
forming his duty as grave digger had uncov-
ered a quartz ledge with no outcroppings ;
that it was visibly rich in free gold; that,
moved by considerations of friendship, he was
willing to accept Mr. Doman as a partner and
awaiting that gentleman's declaration of his

334 THE COLLECTED WORKS

will in the matter would discreetly keep the
discovery a secret. From the postscript it
was plainly inferable that in order to conceal
the treasure he had buried above it the mortal
part of a person named Scarry.

From subsequent events, as related to Mr.
Doman at Red Dog, it would appear that
before taking this precaution Mr. Bree must
have had the thrift to remove a modest com-
petency of the gold; at any rate, it was at
about that time that he entered upon that
memorable series of potations and treatings
which is still one of the cherished traditions
of the San Juan Smith country, and is spoken
of with respect as far away as Ghost Rock and
Lone Hand. At its conclusion some former
citizens of Hurdy-Gurdy, for whom he had
performed the last kindly office at the cemet-
ery, made room for him among them, and he
rested well.

IV

Having finished staking off his claim Mr.
Doman walked back to the centre of it and
stood again at the spot where his search
among the graves had expired in the exclama-
tion, " Scarry." He bent again over the head-
board that bore that name and as if to rein-
force the senses of sight and hearing ran his

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 335

forefinger along the rudely carved letters. Re-
erecting himself he appended orally to the
simple inscription the shockingly forthright
epitaph, " She was a holy terror 1 "

Had Mr. Doman been required to make
these words good with proof — as, considering
their somewhat censorious character, he doubt-
less should have been — he would have found
himself embarrassed by the absence of reput-
able witnesses, and hearsay evidence would
have been the best he could command. At the
time when Scarry had been prevalent in the
mining camps thereabout — when, as the editor
of the Hurdy Herald would have phrased it,
she was " in the plenitude of her power" —
Mr. Doman's fortunes had been at a low ebb,
and he had led the vagrantly laborious life of
a prospector. His time had been mostly
spent in the mountains, now with one com-
panion, now with another. It was from the
admiring recitals of these casual partners,
fresh from the various camps, that his judg-
ment of Scarry had been made up; he him-
self had never had the doubtful advantage of
her acquaintance and the precarious distinc-
tion of her favor. And when, finally, on the
termination of her perverse career at Hurdy-
Gurdy he had read in a chance copy of the

336 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Herald her column-long obituary (written by
the local humorist of that lively sheet in the
highest style of his art) Doman had paid to
her memory and to her historiographer's
genius the tribute of a smile and chivalrously
forgotten her. Standing now at the grave-side
of this mountain Messalina he recalled the
leading events of her turbulent career, as he
had heard them celebrated at his several camp-
fires, and perhaps with an unconscious attempt
at self-justification repeated that she was a
holy terror, and sank his pick into her grave
up to the handle. At that moment a raven,
which had silently settled upon a branch of
the blasted tree above his head, solemnly
snapped its beak and uttered its mind about
the matter with an approving croak.

Pursuing his discovery of free gold with
great zeal, which he probably credited to his
conscience as a grave digger, Mr. Barney
Bree had made an unusually deep sepulcher,
and it was near sunset before Mr. Doman,
laboring with the leisurely deliberation of one
who has " a dead sure thing " and no fear of
an adverse claimant's enforcement of a prior
right, reached the coffin and uncovered it.
When he had done so he was confronted by a
difficulty for which he had made no pro-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 337

vision ; the coffin — a mere flat shell of not very
well-preserved redwood boards, apparently —
had no handles, and it filled the entire bottom
of the excavation. The best he could do with-
out violating the decent sanctities of the situa-
tion was to make the excavation sufficiently
longer to enable him to stand at the head of
the casket and getting his powerful hands un-
derneath erect it upon its narrower end ; and
this he proceeded to do. The approach of
night quickened his efforts. He had no
thought of abandoning his task at this stage to
resume it on the morrow under more advant-
ageous conditions. The feverish stimulation
of cupidity and the fascination of terror held
him to his dismal work with an iron authority.
He no longer idled, but wrought with a terri-
ble zeal. His head uncovered, his outer gar-
ments discarded, his shirt opened at the neck
and thrown back from his breast, down which
ran sinuous rills of perspiration, this hardy
and impenitent gold-getter and grave-robber
toiled with a giant energy that almost digni-
fied the character of his horrible purpose; and
when the sun fringes had burned themselves
out along the crest line of the western hills,
and the full moon had climbed out of the
shadows that lay along the purple plain, he

338 THE COLLECTED WORKS

had erected the coffin upon its foot, where it
stood propped against the end of the open
grave. Then, standing up to his neck in the
earth at the opposite extreme of the excava-
tion, as he looked at the coffin upon which the
moonlight now fell with a full illumination
he was thrilled with a sudden terror to observe
upon it the startling apparition of a dark
human head — the shadow of his own. For a
moment this simple and natural circumstance
unnerved him. The noise of his labored
breathing frightened him, and he tried to still
it, but his bursting lungs would not be denied.
Then, laughing half-audibly and wholly with-
out spirit, he began making movements of his
head from side to side, in order to compel the
apparition to repeat them. He found a com-
forting reassurance in asserting his command
over his own shadow. He was temporizing,
making, with unconscious prudence, a dilat-
ory opposition to an impending catastrophe.
He felt that invisible forces of evil were clos-
ing in upon him, and he parleyed for time
with the Inevitable.

He now observed in succession several un-
usual circumstances. The surface of the coffin
upon which his eyes were fastened was not
flat; it presented two distinct ridges, one

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 339

longitudinal and the other transverse. Where
these intersected at the widest part there was
a corroded metallic plate that reflected the
moonlight with a dismal lustre. Along the
outer edges of the coffin, at long intervals,
were rust-eaten heads of nails. This frail
product of the carpenter's art had been put
into the grave the wrong side up !

Perhaps it was one of the humors of the
camp — a practical manifestation of the face-
tious spirit that had found literary expression
in the topsy-turvy obituary notice from the
pen of Hurdy-Gurdy's great humorist. Per-
haps it had some occult personal signification
impenetrable to understandings uninstructed
in local traditions. A more charitable hypo-
thesis is that it was owing to a misadventure
on the part of Mr. Barney Bree, who, making
the interment unassisted (either by choice for
the conservation of his golden secret, or
through public apathy), had committed a
blunder which he was afterward unable or un-
concerned to rectify. However it had come
about, poor Scarry had indubitably been put
into the earth face downward.

When terror and absurdity make alliance,
the effect is frightful. This strong-hearted
and daring man, this hardy night worker

840 THE COLLECTED WORKS

among the dead, this defiant antagonist of
darkness and desolation, succumbed to a
ridiculous surprise. He was smitten with a
thrilling chill — shivered, and shook his mass-
ive shoulders as if to throw off an icy hand.
He no longer breathed, and the blood in his
veins, unable to abate its impetus, surged hotly
beneath his cold skin. Unleavened with
oxygen, it mounted to his head and congested
his brain. His physical functions had gone
over to the enemy; his very heart was arrayed
against him. He did not move; he could not
have cried out. He needed but a coffin to be
dead — as dead as the death that confronted
him with only the length of an open grave and
the thickness of a rotting plank between.

Then, one by one, his senses returned; the
tide of terror that had overwhelmed his facul-
ties began to recede. But with the return of
his senses he became singularly unconscious
of the object of his fear. He saw the moon-
light gilding the coffin, but no longer the coffin
that it gilded. Raising his eyes and turning his
head, he noted, curiously and with surprise,
the black branches of the dead tree, and tried
to estimate the length of the weather-worn
rope that dangled from its ghostly hand. The
monotonous barking of distant coyotes affected

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 341

him as something he had heard years ago in a
dream. An owl flapped awkwardly above
him on noiseless wings, and he tried to fore-
cast the direction of its flight when it should
encounter the cliff that reared its illuminated
front a mile away. His hearing took account
bf a gopher's stealthy tread in the shadow of
the cactus. He was intensely observant; his
senses were all alert; but he saw not the coffin.
As one can gaze at the sun until it looks black
and then vanishes, so his mind, having ex-
hausted its capacities of dread, was no longer
conscious of the separate existence of anything
dreadful. The Assassin was cloaking the
sword.

It was during this lull in the battle that
he became sensible of a faint, sickening odor.
At first he thought it was that of a rattle-
snake, and involuntarily tried to look about his
feet. They were nearly invisible in the gloom
of the grave. A hoarse, gurgling sound, like
the death-rattle in a human throat, seemed to
come out of the sky, and a moment later a
great, black, angular shadow, like the same
sound made visible, dropped curving from the
topmost branch of the spectral tree, fluttered
for an instant before his face and sailed
fiercely away into the mist along the creek.

342 THE COLLECTED WORKS

It was the raven. The incident recalled him
to a sense of the situation, and again his eyes
sought the upright coffin, now illuminated by
the moon for half its length. He saw the
gleam of the metallic plate and tried without
moving to decipher the inscription. Then he
fell to speculating upon what was behind it.
His creative imagination presented him a
vivid picture. The planks no longer seemed
an obstacle to his vision and he saw the livid
corpse of the dead woman, standing in grave-
clothes, and staring vacantly at him, with lid-
less, shrunken eyes. The lower jaw was
fallen, the upper lip drawn away from the
uncovered teeth. He could make out a mot-
tled pattern on the hollow cheeks — the macu-
lations of decay. By some mysterious process
his mind reverted for the first time that day
to the photograph of Mary Matthews. He
contrasted its blonde beauty with the forbidd-
ing aspect of this dead face — the most be-
loved object that he knew with the most hid-
eous that he could conceive.

The Assassin now advanced and displaying
the blade laid it against the victim's throat.
That is to say, the man became at first dimly,
then definitely, aware of an impressive coin-
cidence— a relation — a parallel between the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 343

face on the card and the name on the head-
board. The one was disfigured, the other de-
scribed a disfiguration. The thought took
hold of him and shook him. It transformed
the face that his imagination had created be-
hind the coffin lid ; the contrast became a re-
semblance; the resemblance grew to identity.
Remembering the many descriptions of
Scarry's personal appearance that he had
heard from the gossips of his camp-fire he
tried with imperfect success to recall the exact
nature of the disfiguration that had given the
woman her ugly name; and what was lacking
in his memory fancy supplied, stamping it
with the validity of conviction. In the mad-
dening attempt to recall such scraps of the
woman's history as he had heard, the muscles
of his arms and hands were strained to a pain-
ful tension, as by an effort to lift a great
weight. His body writhed and twisted with
the exertion. The tendons of his neck stood
out as tense as whip-cords, and his breath
came in short, sharp gasps. The catastrophe
could not be much longer delayed, or the
agony of anticipation would leave nothing to
be done by the coup de grace of verification.
The scarred face behind the lid would slay
him through the wood.

344 THE COLLECTED WORKS

A movement of the coffin diverted his
thought. It came forward to v^ithin a foot of
his face, growing visibly larger as it ap-
proached. The rusted metallic plate, with an
inscription illegible in the moonlight, looked
him steadily in the eye. Determined not to
shrink, he tried to brace his shoulders more
firmly against the end of the excavation, and
nearly fell backward in the attempt. There
was nothing to support him; he had uncon-
sciously moved upon his enemy, clutching the
heavy knife that he had drawn from his belt.
The coffin had not advanced and he smiled to
think it could not retreat. Lifting his knife he
struck the heavy hilt against the metal plate
with all his power. There was a sharp, ring-
ing percussion, and with a dull clatter the
whole decayed coffin lid broke in pieces and
came away, falling about his feet. The quick
and the dead were face to face — the frenzied,
shrieking man — the woman standing tranquil
in her silences. She was a holy terror!

V

Some months later a party of men and
women belonging to the highest social circles
of San Francisco passed through Hurdy-
Gurdy on their way to the Yosemite Valley

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 345

by a new trail. They halted for dinner and
during its preparation explored the desolate
camp. One of the party had been at Hurdy-
Gurdy in the days of its glory. He had, in-
deed, been one of its prominent citizens; and
it used to be said that more money passed over
his faro table in any one night than over those
of all his competitors in a week; but being
now a millionaire engaged in greater enter-
prises, he did not deem these early successes of
sufficient importance to merit the distinction
of remark. His invalid wife, a lady famous in
San Francisco for the costly nature of her
entertainments and her exacting rigor with
regard to the social position and " anteced-
ents" of those who attended them, accompanied
the expedition. During a stroll among the
shanties of the abandoned camp Mr. Porfer
directed the attention of his wife and friends
to a dead tree on a low hill beyond Injun
Creek.

" As I told you," he said, " I passed
through this camp in 1852, and was told that
no fewer than five men had been hanged here
by vigilantes at different times, and all on that
tree. If I am not mistaken, a rope is dangling
from it yet. Let us go over and see the place.''

Mr. Porfer did not add that the rope in

346 THE COLLECTED WORKS

question was perhaps the very one from whose
fatal embrace his own neck had once had an
escape so narrow that an hour's delay in tak-
ing himself out of that region would have
spanned it.

Proceeding leisurely down the creek to a
convenient crossing, the party came upon the
cleanly picked skeleton of an animal which
Mr. Porfer after due examination pronounced
to be that of an ass. The distinguishing ears
were gone, but much of the inedible head had
been spared by the beasts and birds, and the
stout bridle of horsehair was intact, as was the
riata, of similar material, connecting it with
a picket pin still firmly sunken in the earth.
The wooden and metallic elements of a
miner's kit lay near by. The customary re-
marks were made, cynical on the part of the
men, sentimental and refined by the lady. A
little later they stood by the tree in the cemet-
ery and Mr. Porfer sufficiently unbent from
his dignity to place himself beneath the rotten
rope and confidently lay a coil of it about his
neck, somewhat, it appeared, to his own satis-
faction, but greatly to the horror of his wife,
to whose sensibilities the performance gave a
smart shock.

An exclamation from one of the party

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 347

gathered them all about an open grave, at
the bottom of which they saw a confused
mass of human bones and the broken rem-
nants of a coffin. Coyotes and buzzards had
performed the last sad rites for pretty much
all else. Two skulls were visible and in order
to investigate this somewhat unusual redund-
ancy one of the younger men had the hardi-
hood to spring into the grave and hand them
up to another before Mrs. Porfer could indic-
ate her marked disapproval of so shocking an
act, which, nevertheless, she did with con-
siderable feeling and in very choice words.
Pursuing his search among the dismal debris
at the bottom of the grave the young man next
handed up a rusted coffin plate, with a rudely
cut inscription, which with difficulty Mr.
Porfer deciphered and read aloud with an
earnest and not altogether unsuccessful at-
tempt at the dramatic effect which he deemed
befitting to the occasion and his rhetorical

abilities:

Manuelita Murphy.

Born at the Mission San Pedro — Died in

Hurdy-Gurdy,

Aged 47.

Hell's full of such.

In deference to the piety of the reader and

348 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the nerves of Mrs. Porfer's fastidious sister-
hood of both sexes let us not touch upon the
painful impression produced by this uncom-
mon inscription, further than to say that the
elocutionary powers of Mr. Porfer had never
before met with so spontaneous and over-
whelming recognition.

The next morsel that rewarded the ghoul
in the grave was a long tangle of black hair
defiled with clay: but this was such an anti-
climax that it received little attention. Sud-
denly, with a short exclamation and a gesture
of excitement, the young man unearthed a
fragment of grayish rock, and after a hurried
inspection handed it up to Mr. Porfer. As
the sunlight fell upon it it glittered with a
yellow luster — it was thickly studded with
gleaming points. Mr. Porfer snatched it, bent
his head over it a moment and threw it lightly
away with the simple remark:

" Iron pyrites — fool's gold."

The young man in the discovery shaft was
a trifle disconcerted, apparently.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Porfer, unable longer to
endure the disagreeable business, had walked
back to the tree and seated herself at its root
While rearranging a tress of golden hair
which had slipped from its confinement she

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 349

was attracted by what appeared to be and
really was the fragment of an old coat. Look-
ing about to assure herself that so unladylike
an act was not observed, she thrust her jeweled
hand into the exposed breast pocket and drew
out a mouldy pocket-book. Its contents were
as follows:

One bundle of letters, postmarked " Eliza-
bethtown, New Jersey."

One circle of blonde hair tied with a ribbon.

One photograph of a beautiful girl.

One ditto of same, singularly disfigured.

One name on back of photograph — " Jeffer-
son Doman."

A few moments later a group of anxious
gentlemen surrounded Mrs. Porfer as she sat
motionless at the foot of the tree, her head
dropped forward, her fingers clutching a
crushed photograph. Her husband raised her
head, exposing a face ghastly white, except
the long, deforming cicatrice, familiar to all
her friends, which no art could ever hide, and
which now traversed the pallor of her coun-
tenance like a visible curse.

Mary Matthews Porfer had the bad luck to
be dead.

350 THE COLLECTED WORKS
THE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS

THE NIGHT

ONE midsummer night a farmer's boy
living about ten miles from the city
of Cincinnati was following a
bridle path through a dense and
dark forest. He had lost himself while
searching for some missing cows, and near
midnight was a long way from home, in a part
of the country with which he was unfamiliar.
But he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing
his general direction from his home, he
plunged into the forest without hesitation,
guided by the stars. Coming into the bridle
path, and observing that it ran in the right
direction, he followed it.

The night was clear, but in the woods it
was exceedingly dark. It was more by the
sense of touch than by that of sight that the
lad kept the path. He could not, indeed, very
easily go astray; the undergrowth on both
sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable.
He had gone into the forest a mile or more
when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 351

of light shining through the foliage skirting
the path on his left. The sight of it startled
him and set his heart beating audibly.

"The old Breede house is somewhere about
here," he said to himself. " This must be the
other end of the path which we reach it by
from our side. Ugh I what should a light be
doing there?"

Nevertheless, he pushed on. A moment
later he had emerged from the forest into a
small, open space, mostly upgrown to bram-
bles. There were remnants of a rotting fence.
A few yards from the trail, in the middle of
the " clearing," was the house from which the
light came, through an unglazed window.
The window had once contained glass, but
that and its supporting frame had long ago
yielded to missiles flung by hands of venture-
some boys to attest alike their courage and
their hostility to the supernatural; for the
Breede house bore the evil reputation of being
haunted. Possibly it was not, but even the
hardiest sceptic could not deny that it was
deserted — which in rural regions is much the
same thing.

Looking at the mysterious dim light shin-
ing from the ruined window the boy re-
membered with apprehension that his own

352 THE COLLECTED WORKS

hand had assisted at the destruction. His
penitence was of course poignant in propor-
tion to its tardiness and inefficacy. He half
expected to be set upon by all the unworldly
and bodiless malevolences whom he had out-
raged by assisting to break alike their win-
dows and their peace. Yet this stubborn lad,
shaking in every limb, would not retreat. The
blood in his veins was strong and rich with
the iron of the frontiersman. He was but
two removes from the generation that had
subdued the Indian. He started to pass the
house.

As he was going by he looked in at the
blank window space and saw a strange and
terrifying sight, — the figure of a man seated
in the centre of the room, at a table upon
which lay some loose sheets of paper. The
elbows rested on the table, the hands support-
ing the head, which was uncovered. On each
side the fingers were pushed into the hair.
The face showed dead-yellow in the light of
a single candle a little to one side. The flame
illuminated that side of the face, the other was
in deep shadow. The man's eyes were fixed
upon the blank window space with a stare in
which an older and cooler observer might
have discerned something of apprehension,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 358

but which seemed to the lad altogether soul-
less. He believed the man to be dead.

The situation was horrible, but not with
out its fascination. The boy stopped to note
it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he
could feel the blood forsaking his face.
Nevertheless, he set his teeth and resolutely
advanced to the house. He had no conscious
intention — it was the mere courage of terror.
He thrust his white face forward into the
illuminated opening. At that instant a
strange, harsh cry, a shriek, broke upon the
silence of the night — the note of a screech-owl.
The man sprang to his feet, overturning the
table and extinguishing the candle. The boy
took to his heels.

THE DAY BEFORE

" Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it
seems. You have often said that my com-
mendation of your literary work was mere
civility, and here you find me absorbed — act-
ually merged — in your latest story in the
Messenger, Nothing less shocking than your
touch upon my shoulder would have roused
me to consciousness."

"The proof is stronger than you seem to
know," replied the man addressed : " so keen

354 THE COLLECTED WORKS

is your eagerness to read my story that you are
willing to renounce selfish considerations and
forego all the pleasure that you could get
from it."

" I don't understand you," said the other,
folding the newspaper that he held and putt-
ing it into his pocket. "You writers are a
queer lot, anyhow. Come, tell me what I have
done or omitted in this matter. In what way
does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from
your work depend on me?"

" In many ways. Let me ask you how you
would enjoy your breakfast if you took it in this
street car. Suppose the phonograph so per-
fected as to be able to give you an entire opera,
— singing, orchestration, and all ; do you think
you would get much pleasure out of it if you
turned it on at your office during business
hours? Do you really care for a serenade by
Schubert when you hear it fiddled by an un-
timely Italian on a morning ferryboat? Are
you always cocked and primed for enjoy-
ment? Do you keep every mood on tap, ready
to any demand? Let me remind you, sir, that
the story which you have done me the honor
to begin as a means of becoming oblivious to
the discomfort of this car is a ghost story I"

"Well?"

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 355

"Well! Has the reader no duties corre-
sponding to his privileges? You have paid
five cents for that newspaper. It is yours.
You have the right to read it when and where
you will. Much of what is in it is neither
helped nor harmed by time and place and
mood; some of it actually requires to be read
at once — while it is fizzing. But my story is
not of that character. It is not * the very lat-
est advices' from Ghostland. You are not
expected to keep yourself au courant with
what is going on in the realm of spooks. The
stuff will keep until you have leisure to put
yourself into the frame of mind appropriate
to the sentiment of the piece — which I respect-
fully submit that you cannot do in a street car,
even if you are the only passenger. The soli-
tude is not of the right sort. An author
has rights which the reader is bound to re-
spect."

" For specific example?"

"The right to the reader's undivided atten-
tion. To deny him this is immoral. To make
him share your attention with the rattle of a
street car, the moving panorama of the crowds
on the sidewalks, and the buildings beyond —
with any of the thousands of distractions
which make our customary environment — is

356 THE COLLECTED WORKS

to treat him with gross injustice. By God, it
is infamous!"

The speaker had risen to his feet and was
steadying himself by one of the straps hang-
ing from the roof of the car. The other man
looked up at him in sudden astonishment,
wondering how so trivial a grievance could
seem to justify so strong language. He saw
that his friend's face was uncommonly pale
and that his eyes glowed like living coals.

"You know what I mean," continued the
writer, impetuously crowding his words —
*^you know what I mean, Marsh. My stufif
in this morning's Messenger is plainly sub-
headed *A Ghost Story.' That is ample
notice to all. Every honorable reader will
understand it as prescribing by implication
the conditions under which the work is to be
read."

The man addressed as Marsh winced a tri-
fle, then asked with a smile: "What condi-
tions? You know that I am only a plain
business man who cannot be supposed to un-
derstand such things. How, when, where
should I read your ghost story?"

" In solitude — at night — by the light of a
candle. There are certain emotions which a
writer can easily enough excite — such as com-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 357

passion or merriment. I can move you to
tears or laughter under almost any circum-
stances. But for my ghost story to be effect-
ive you must be made to feel fear — at least a
strong sense of the supernatural — and that is
a difficult matter. I have a right to expect
that if you read me at all you will give me a
chance; that you will make yourself accessible
to the emotion that I try to inspire."

The car had now arrived at its terminus and
stopped. The trip just completed was its first
for the day and the conversation of the two
early passengers had not been interrupted.
The streets were yet silent and desolate; the
house tops were just touched by the rising sun.
As they stepped from the car and walked
away together Marsh narrowly eyed his com-
panion, who was reported, like most men of
uncommon literary ability, to be addicted to
various destructive vices. That is the revenge
which dull minds take upon bright ones in re-
sentment of their superiority. Mr. Colston
was known as a man of genius. There are
honest souls who believe that genius is a mode
of excess. It was known that Colston did not
drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium.
Something in his appearance that morning — a
certain wildness of the eyes, an unusual pallor,

858 THE COLLECTED WORKS

a thickness and rapidity of speech — were
taken by Mr. Marsh to confirm the report.
Nevertheless, he had not the self-denial to
abandon a subject which he found interesting,
however it might excite his friend.

*^ Do you mean to say," he began, " that if
I take the trouble to observe your directions
— place myself in the conditions that you de-
mand: solitude, night and a tallow candle —
you can with your ghostly work give me an
uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as
you call it? Can you accelerate my pulse,
make me start at sudden noises, send a nervous
chill along my spine and cause my hair to
rise?"

Colston turned suddenly and looked him
squarely in the eyes as they walked. " You
would not dare^you have not the courage,"
he said. He emphasized the words with a
contemptuous gesture. "You are brave
enough to read me in a street car, but — in a
deserted house — alone — in the forest — at
night! Bah! I have a manuscript in my
pocket that would kill you."

Marsh was angry. He knew himself
courageous, and the words stung him. " If
you know such a place," he said, "take me
there to-night and leave me your story and a

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 359

candle. Call for me when I've had time
enough to read it and I'll tell you the entire
plot and — kick you out of the place."

That is how it occurred that the farmer's
boy, looking in at an unglazed window of the
Breede house, saw a man sitting in the light
of a candle.

THE DAY AFTER

Late in the afternoon of the next day three
men and a boy approached the Breede house
from that point of the compass toward which
the boy had fled the preceding night. The
men were in high spirits; they talked very
loudly and laughed. They made facetious
and good-humored ironical remarks to the
boy about his adventure, which evidently they
did not believe in. The boy accepted their
raillery with seriousness, making no reply.
He had a sense of the fitness of things and
knew that one who professes to have seen a
dead man rise from his seat and blow out a
candle is not a credible witness.

Arriving at the house and finding the door
unlocked, the party of investigators entered
without ceremony. Leading out of the pass-
age into which this door opened was another
on the right and one on the left. They en-
tered the room on the left — the one which had

860 THE COLLECTED WORKS

the blank front window. Here was the dead
body of a man.

It lay partly on one side, with the forearm
beneath it, the cheek on the floor. The eyes
were wide open; the stare was not an agree-
able thing to encounter. The lower jaw had
fallen; a little pool of saliva had collected
beneath the mouth. An overthrown table, a
partly burned candle, a chair and some paper
with writing on it were all else that the room
contained. The men looked at the body,
touching the face in turn. The boy gravely
stood at the head, assuming a look of owner-
ship. It was the proudest moment of his life.
One of the men said to him, " You're a good
'un" — a remark which was received by the
two others with nods of acquiescence. It was
Scepticism apologizing to Truth. Then one
of the men took from the floor the sheet of
manuscript and stepped to the window, for al-
ready the evening shadows were glooming
the forest. The song of the whip-poor-will
was heard in the distance and a monstrous
beetle sped by the window on roaring wings
and thundered away out of hearing. The man
read :

THE MANUSCRIPT

" Before committing the act which, rightly

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 361

or wrongly, I have resolved on and appear-
ing before my Maker for judgment, I, James
R. Colston, deem it my duty as a journalist to
make a statement to the public. My name
is, I believe, tolerably well known to the peo-
ple as a writer of tragic tales, but the somber-
est imagination never conceived anything so
tragic as my own life and history. Not in
incident: my life has been destitute of adven-
ture and action. But my mental career has
been lurid with experiences such as kill and
damn. I shall not recount them here — some
of them are written and ready for publication
elsewhere. The object of these lines is to ex-
plain to whomsoever may be interested that
my death is voluntary — my own act. I shall
die at twelve o'clock on the night of the i^th
of July — a significant anniversary to me, for
it was on that day, and at that hour, that my
friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede,
performed his vow to me by the same act
which his fidelity to our pledge now entails
upon me. He took his life in his little house
in the Copeton woods. There was the cus-
tomary verdict of * temporary insanity.' Had
I testified at that inquest — had I told all I
knew, they would have called me mad!"
Here followed an evidently long passage

362 THE COLLECTED WORKS

which the man reading read to himself only.
The rest he read aloud.

" I have still a week of life in which to ar-
range my worldly affairs and prepare for the
great change. It is enough, for I have but
few affairs and it is now four years since death
became an imperative obligation.

" I shall bear this writing on my body; the
finder will please hand it to the coroner.

"James R. Colston.

"P. S.— Willard Marsh, on this the fatal
fifteenth day of July I hand you this manu-
script, to be opened and read under the con-
ditions agreed upon, and at the place which
I designated. I forego my intention to keep
it on my body to explain the manner of my
death, which is not important. It will serve
to explain the manner of yours. I am to
call for you during the night to receive assur-
ance that you have read the manuscript. You
know me well enough to expect me. But,
my friend, it will be after twelve o'clock.
May God have mercy on our souls!

"J. R. C."

Before the man who was reading this man-
uscript had finished, the candle had been
picked up and lighted. When the reader had

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 363

done, he quietly thrust the paper against the
flame and despite the protestations of the
others held it until it was burnt to ashes. The
man who did this, and who afterward placidly
endured a severe reprimand from the coroner,
was a son-in-law of the late Charles Breede.
At the inquest nothing could elicit an intellig-
ent account of what the paper had contained.

FROM "THE times"

"Yesterday the Commissioners of Lunacy
committed to the asylum Mr. James R. Col-
ston, a writer of some local reputation, con-
nected with the Messenger. It will be re-
membered that on the evening of the 15th inst.
Mr. Colston was given into custody by one of
his fellow-lodgers in the Baine House, who
had observed him acting very suspiciously,
baring his throat and whetting a razor — oc-
casionally trying its edge by actually cutting
through the skin of his arm, etc. On being
handed over to the police, the unfortunate
man made a desperate resistance, and has ever
since been so violent that it has been necessary
to keep him in a strait-jacket. Most of our
esteemed contemporary's other writers are still
at large."

364 THE COLLECTED WORKS

THE BOARDED WINDOW

IN 1830, only a few miles away from what
IS now the great city of Cincinnati, lay
an immense and almost unbroken forest.
The whole region was sparsely settled by
people of the frontier — restless souls who no
sooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out
of the wilderness and attained to that degree
of prosperity which to-day we should call in-
digence than impelled by some mysterious im-
pulse of their nature they abandoned all and
pushed farther westward, to encounter new
perils and privations in the effort to regain the
meagre comforts which they had voluntarily
renounced. Many of them had already for-
saken that region for the remoter settlements,
but among those remaining was one who had
been of those first arriving. He lived alone
in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by
the great forest, of whose gloom and silence
he seemed a part, for no one had ever known
him to smile nor speak a needless word. His
simple wants were supplied by the sale or
barter of skins of wild animals in the river
town, for not a thing did he grow upon the

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 365

land which, if needful, he might have claimed
by right of undisturbed possession. There
were evidences of "improvement" — a few
acres of ground immediately about the house
had once been cleared of its trees, the decayed
stumps of which were half concealed by the
new growth that had been suffered to repair
the ravage wrought by the ax. Apparently
the man's zeal for agriculture had burned
with a failing flame, expiring in penitential
ashes.

The little log house, with its chimney of
sticks, its roof of warping clapboards
weighted with traversing poles and its " chink-
ing " of clay, had a single door and, directly
opposite, a window. The latter, however,
was boarded up — nobody could remember a
time when it was not. And none knew why
it was so closed; certainly not because of the
occupant's dislike of light and air, for on those
rare occasions when a hunter had passed that
lonely spot the recluse had commonly been
seen sunning himself on his doorstep if heaven
had provided sunshine for his need. I fancy
there are few persons living to-day who ever
knew the secret of that window, but I am one,
as you shall see.

The man's name was said to be Murlock.

366 THE COLLECTED WORKS

He was apparently seventy years old, actu-
ally about fifty. Something besides years had
had a hand in his aging. His hair and long,
full beard were white, his gray, lustreless eyes
sunken, his face singularly seamed with
wrinkles which appeared to belong to two in-
tersecting systems. In figure he was tall and
spare, with a stoop of the shoulders — a burden
bearer. I never saw him; these particulars I
learned from my grandfather, from whom
also I got the man's story when I was a lad.
He had known him when living near by in
that early day.

One day Murlock was found in his cabin,
dead. It was not a time and place for coron-
ers and newspapers, and I suppose it was
agreed that he had died from natural causes
or I should have been told, and should re-
member. I know only that with what was
probably a sense of the fitness of things the
body was buried near the cabin, alongside the
grave of his wife, who had preceded him by
so many years that local tradition had retained
hardly a hint of her existence. That closes
the final chapter of this true story — excepting,
indeed, the circumstance that many years
afterward, in company with an equally in-
trepid spirit, I penetrated to the place and

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 367

ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to
throw a stone against it, and ran away to avoid
the ghost which every well-informed boy
thereabout knew haunted the spot. But there
is an earlier chapter — that supplied by my
grandfather.

When Murlock built his cabin and began
laying sturdily about with his ax to hew out
a farm — the rifle, meanwhile, his means of
support — he was young, strong and full of
hope. In that eastern country whence he
came he had married, as was the fashion, a
young woman in all ways worthy of his hon-
est devotion, who shared the dangers and priv-
ations of his lot with a willing spirit and
light heart. There is no known record of her
name; of her charms of mind and person
tradition is silent and the doubter is at liberty
to entertain his doubt; but God forbid that I
should share it! Of their affection and
happiness there is abundant assurance in every
added day of the man's widowed life; for
what but the magnetism of a blessed memory
could have chained that venturesome spirit to
a lot like that?

One day Murlock returned from gunning
in a distant part of the forest to find his wife
prostrate with fever, and delirious. There

368 THE COLLECTED WORKS

was no physician within miles, no neighbor;
nor was she in a condition to be left, to sum-
mon help. So he set about the task of nurs-
ing her back to health, but at the end of the
third day she fell into unconsciousness and
so passed away, apparently, with never a
gleam of returning reason.

From what we know of a nature like his
we may venture to sketch in some of the de-
tails of the outline picture drawn by my
grandfather. When convinced that she was
dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember
that the dead must be prepared for burial.
In performance of this sacred duty he blun-
dered now and again, did certain things incor-
rectly, and others which he did correctly were
done over and over. His occasional failures
to accomplish some simple and ordinary act
filled him with astonishment, like that of a
drunken man who wonders at the suspension
of familiar natural laws. He was surprised,
too, that he did not weep — surprised and a
little ashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep
for the dead. *^ To-morrow," he said aloud,
" I shall have to make the coffin and dig the
grave ; and then I shall miss her, when she is
no longer in sight; but now — she is dead, of
course, but it is all right — it must be all right,

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 369

somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they
seem."

He stood over the body in the fading light,
adjusting the hair and putting the finishing
touches to the simple toilet, doing all me-
chanically, with soulless care. And still
through his consciousness ran an undersense of
conviction that all was right — that he should
have her again as before, and everything ex-
plained. He had had no experience in grief;
his capacity had not been enlarged by use.
His heart could not contain it all, nor his
imagination rightly conceive it. He did not
know he was so hard struck; that knowledge
would come later, and never go. Grief is an
artist of powers as various as the instruments
upon which he plays his dirges for the dead,
evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest
notes, from others the low, grave chords that
throb recurrent like the slow beating of a dis-
tant drum. Some natures it startles ; some it
stupefies. To one it comes like the stroke of
an arrow, stinging all the sensibilities to a
keener life; to another as the blow of a
bludgeon, which in crushing benumbs. We
may conceive Murlock to have been that way
affected, for (and here we are upon surer
ground than that of conjecture) no sooner had

370 THE COLLECTED WORKS

he finished his pious work than, sinking into
a chair by the side of the table upon which the
body lay, and noting how white the profile
showed in the deepening gloom, he laid his
arms upon the table's edge, and dropped his
face into them, tearless yet and unutterably
weary. At that moment came in through the
open window a long, wailing sound like the
cry of a lost child in the far deeps of the dark-
ening wood I But the man did not move.
Again, and nearer than before, sounded that
unearthly cry upon his failing sense. Per-
haps it was a wild beast; perhaps it was a
dream. For Murlock was asleep.

Some hours later, as it afterward appeared,
this unfaithful watcher awoke and lifting his
head from his arms intently listened — he knew
not why. There in the black darkness by the
side of the dead, recalling all without a shock,
he strained his eyes to see — ^he knew not what.
His senses were all alert, his breath was sus-
pended, his blood had stilled its tides as if to
assist the silence. Who — what had waked
him, and where was it?

Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms,
and at the same moment he heard, or fancied
that he heard, a light, soft step — another —
sounds as of bare feet upon the floor I

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 371

He was terrified beyond the power to cry
out or move. Perforce he waited — waited
there in the darkness through seeming cent-
uries of such dread as one may know, yet
live to tell. He tried vainly to speak the dead
woman's name, vainly to stretch forth his hand
across the table to learn if she were there.
His throat was powerless, his arms and hands
were like lead. Then occurred something
most frightful. Some heavy body seemed
hurled against the table with an impetus that
pushed it against his breast so sharply as
nearly to overthrow him, and at the same in-
stant he heard and felt the fall of something
upon the floor with so violent a thump that the
whole house was shaken by the impact. A
scuffling ensued, and a confusion of sounds
impossible to describe. Murlock had risen to
his feet. Fear had by excess forfeited control
of his faculties. He flung his hands upon the
table. Nothing was there I

There is a point at which terror may turn
to madness; and madness incites to action.
With no definite intent, from no motive but
the wayward impulse of a madman, Murlock
sprang to the wall, with a little groping seized
his loaded rifle, and without aim discharged
it. By the flash which lit up the room with a

872 THE COLLECTED WORKS

vivid illumination, he saw an enormous
panther dragging the dead woman toward the
window, its teeth fixed in her throat 1 Then
there were darkness blacker than before, and
silence ; and when he returned to consciousness
the sun was high and the wood vocal with
songs of birds.

The body lay near the window, where the
beast had left it when frightened away by the
flash and report of the rifle. The clothing
was deranged, the long hair in disorder, the
limbs lay anyhow. From the throat, dread-
fully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not
yet entirely coagulated. The ribbon with
which he had bound the wrists was broken;
the hands were tightly clenched. Between
the teeth was a fragment of the animal's ear.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 373

A LADY FROM REDHORSE

CoRONADO, June 20.

1FIND myself more and more interested
in him. It is not, I am sure, his — do you
know any good noun corresponding to
the adjective "handsome"? One does
not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a
man. He is beautiful enough, Heaven
knows; I should not even care to trust you
with him — faithfulest of all possible wives
that you are — when he looks his best, as he
always does. Nor do I think the fascination
of his manner has much to do with it. You
recollect that the charm of art inheres in that
which is undefinable, and to you and me, my
dear Irene, I fancy there is rather less of that
in the branch of art under consideration than
to girls in their first season. I fancy I know
how my fine gentleman produces many of his
effects and could perhaps give him a pointer
on heightening them. Nevertheless, his man-
ner is something truly delightful. I suppose
what interests me chiefly is the man's brains.
His conversation is the best I have ever heard
and altogether unlike any one else's. He

374 THE COLLECTED WORKS

seems to know everything, as indeed he ought,
for he has been everywhere, read everything,
seen all there is to see — sometimes I think
rather more than is good for him — and had
acquaintance with the queerest people. And
then his voice — Irene, when I hear it I actu-
ally feel as if I ought to have paid at the door,
though of course it is my own door.

July 3.
I fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must
have been, being thoughtless, very silly, or you
would not have written of him with such
levity, not to say disrespect. Believe me,
dearest, he has more dignity and seriousness
(of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent
with a manner sometimes playful and always
charming) than any of the men that you and
I ever met. And young Raynor — you knew
Raynor at Monterey — tells me that the men all
like him and that he is treated with something
like deference everywhere. There is a mys-
tery, too — something about his connection
with the Blavatsky people in Northern India.
Raynor either would not or could not tell me
the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz is
thought — don't you dare to laugh! — a magi-
cian. Could anything be finer than that?

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 375

An ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good
as a scandal, but when it relates to dark and
dreadful practices — to the exercise of un-
earthly powers — could anything be more
piquant? It explains, too, the singular in-
fluence the man has upon me. It is the un-
definable in his art — black art. Seriously,
dear, I quite tremble when he looks me full in
the eyes with those unfathomable orbs of his,
which I have already vainly attempted to de-
scribe to you. How dreadful if he has the
power to make one fall in love! Do you
know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power
— outside of Sepoy?

July i6.
The strangest thing I Last evening while
Auntie was attending one of the hotel hops
(I hate them) Dr. Barritz called. It was
scandalously late — I actually believe that he
had talked with Auntie in the ballroom and
learned from her that I was alone. I had
been all the evening contriving how to worm
out of him the truth about his connection with
the Thugs in Sepoy, and all of that black
business, but the moment he fixed his eyes on
me (for I admitted him, I'm ashamed to say)
I was helpless. I trembled, I blushed, I — O

876 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Irene, Irene, I love the man beyond expres-
sion and you know how it is yourself.

Fancy! I, an ugly duckling from Redhorse
•—daughter (they say) of old Calamity Jim —
certainly his heiress, with no living relation
but an absurd old aunt who spoils me a
thousand and fifty ways — absolutely destitute
of everything but a million dollars and a hope
in Paris, — I daring to love a god like him!
My dear, if I had you here I could tear your
hair out with mortification.

I am convinced that he is aware of my feel-
ing, for he stayed but a few moments, said
nothing but what another man might have
said half as well, and pretending that he had
an engagement went away. I learned to-day
(a little bird told me — the bell-bird) that he
went straight to bed. How does that strike
you as evidence of exemplary habits?

July 17.
That little wretch, Raynor, called yester-
day and his babble set me almost wild. He
never runs down — that is to say, when he ex-
terminates a score of reputations, more or less,
he does not pause between one reputation and
the next. (By the way, he inquired about
you, and his manifestations of interest in you

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 377

had, I confess, a good deal of vraisemblance.)
Mr. Raynor observes no game laws; like
Death (which he would inflict if slander were
fatal) he has all seasons for his own. But I
like him, for we knew each other at Redhorse
when we were young. He was known in
those days as " Giggles," and I — O Irene, can
you ever forgive me? — I was called " Gunny."
God knows why; perhaps in allusion to the
material of my pinafores; perhaps because
the name is in alliteration with "Giggles,"
for Gig and I were inseparable playmates,
and the miners may have thought it a delicate
civility to recognize some kind of relationship
between us.

Later, we took in a third — another of Ad-
versity's brood, who, like Garrick between
Tragedy and Comedy, had a chronic inability
to adjudicate the rival claims of Frost and
Famine. Between him and misery there was
seldom anything more than a single suspender
and the hope of a meal which would at the
same time support life and make it insupport-
able. He literally picked up a precarious liv-
ing for himself and an aged mother by
"chloriding the dumps," that is to say, the
miners permitted him to search the heaps of
waste rock for such pieces of "pay ore" as

378 THE COLLECTED WORKS

had been overlooked; and these he sacked up
and sold at the Syndicate Mill. He became
a member of our firm — " Gunny, Giggles, and
Dumps" thenceforth — through my favor; for
I could not then, nor can I now, be indifferent
to his courage and prowess in defending
against Giggles the immemorial right of his
sex to insult a strange and unprotected female
— myself. After old Jim struck it in the
Calamity and I began to wear shoes and go to
school, and in emulation Giggles took to
washing his face and became Jack Raynor, of
Wells, Fargo & Co., and old Mrs. Barts was
herself chlorided to her fathers. Dumps
drifted over to San Juan Smith and turned
stage driver, and was killed by road agents,
and so forth.

Why do I tell you all this, dear? Because
it is heavy on my heart. Because I walk the
Valley of Humility. Because I am subduing
myself to permanent consciousness of my un-
worthiness to unloose the latchet of Dr. Bar-
ritz's shoe. Because, oh dear, oh dear, there's
a cousin of Dumps at this hotel! I haven't
spoken to him. I never had much acquaint-
ance with him, — but do you suppose he has
recognized me? Do, please give me in your
next your candid, sure-enough opinion about

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 379

it, and say you don't think so. Do you sup-
pose He knows about me already, and that
that is why He left me last evening when He
saw that I blushed and trembled like a fool
under His eyes? You know I can't bribe all
the newspapers, and I can't go back on any-
body who was civil to Gunny at Redhorse —
not if I'm pitched out of society into the sea.
So the skeleton sometimes rattles behind the
door. I never cared much before, as you
know, but now — now it is not the same. Jack
Raynor I am sure of — he will not tell Him.
He seems, indeed, to hold Him in such respect
as hardly to dare speak to Him at all, and I'm
a good deal that way- myself. Dear, dear! I
wish I had something besides a million dol-
lars! If Jack were three inches taller I'd
marry him alive and go back to Redhorse and
wear sackcloth again to the end of my miser-
able days.

July 25.
We had a perfectly splendid sunset last
evening and I must tell you all about it. I
ran away from Auntie and everybody and was
walking alone on the beach. I expect you to
believe, you infidel! that I had not looked out
of my window on the seaward side of the hotel
and seen Him walking alone on the beach. If

380 THE COLLECTED WORKS

you are not lost to every feeling of womanly
delicacy you will accept my statement without
question. I soon established myself under my
sunshade and had for some time been gazing
out dreamily over the sea, when he ap-
proached, walking close to the edge of the
water — it was ebb tide. I assure you the wet
sand actually brightened about his feet I As
he approached me he lifted his hat, saying,
" Miss Dement, may I sit with you? — or will
you walk with me? "

The possibility that neither might be agree-
able seems not to have occurred to him. Did
you ever know such assurance? Assurance?
My dear, it was gall, downright gall! Well,
I didn't find it wormwood, and replied, with
my untutored Redhorse heart in my throat, " I
— I shall be pleased to do anything/' Could
words have been more stupid? There are
depths of fatuity in me, friend o' my soul, that
are simply bottomless I

He extended his hand, smiling, and I de-
livered mine into it without a moment's hesit-
ation, and when his fingers closed about it to
assist me to my feet the consciousness that it
trembled made me blush worse than the red
west. I got up, however, and after a while,
observing that he had not let go my hand I

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 381

pulled on it a little, but unsuccessfully. He
simply held on, saying nothing, but looking
down into my face with some kind of smile —
I didn't know — how could I ? — whether it was
affectionate, derisive, or what, for I did not
look at him. How beautiful he was! — with
the red fires of the sunset burning in the
depths of his eyes. Do you know, dear, if the
Thugs and Experts of the Blavatsky region
have any special kind of eyes? Ah, you
should have seen his superb attitude, the god-
like inclination of his head as he stood over
me after I had got upon my feet! It was a
noble picture, but I soon destroyed it, for I
began at once to sink again to the earth.
There was only one thing for him to do, and
he did it; he supported me with an arm about
my waist.

" Miss Dement, are you ill?" he said.

It was not an exclamation; there was
neither alarm nor solicitude in it. If he had
added: "I suppose that is about what I am
expected to say," he would hardly have ex-
pressed his sense of the situation more clearly.
His manner filled me with shame and in-
dignation, for I was suffering acutely. I
wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm
supporting me and pushing myself free, fell

882 THE COLLECTED WORKS

plump into the sand and sat helpless. My hat
had fallen off in the struggle and my hair
tumbled about my face and shoulders in the
most mortifying way.

" Go away from me," I cried, half choking.
" O please go away, you — you Thug! How
dare you think that when my leg is asleep?"

I actually said those identical words I And
then I broke down and sobbed. Irene, I
blubbered!

His manner altered in an instant — I could
see that much through my fingers and hair.
He dropped on one knee beside me, parted
the tangle of hair and said in the tenderest
way: "My poor girl, God knows I have not
intended to pain you. How should I? — I
who love you — I who have loved you for — for
years and years 1 "

He had pulled my wet hands away from
my face and was covering them with kisses.
My cheeks were like two coals, my whole face
was flaming and, I think, steaming. What
could I do? I hid it on his shoulder — there
was no other place. And, O my dear friend,
how my leg tingled and thrilled, and how I
wanted to kick!

We sat so for a long time. He had re-
leased one of my hands to pass his arm about

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 383

me again and I possessed myself of my hand-
kerchief and was drying my eyes and my nose.
I would not look up until that was done; he
tried in vain to push me a little away and
gaze into my face. Presently, when all was
right, and it had grown a bit dark, I lifted my
head, looked him straight in the eyes and
smiled my best — my level best, dear.

"What do you mean," I said, "by * years
and years'?"

" Dearest," he replied, very gravely, very
earnestly, " in the absence of the sunken
cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the
slouching gait, the rags, dirt, and youth, can
you not — will you not understand? Gunny,
I'm Dumps!"

In a moment I was upon my feet and he
upon his. I seized him by the lapels of his
coat and peered into his handsome face in the
deepening darkness. I was breathless with
excitement.

"And you are not dead?" I asked, hardly
knowing what I said.

"Only dead in love, dear. I recovered
from the road agent's bullet, but this, I fear, is
fatal."

"But about Jack— Mr. Raynor? Don't
you know "

384 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" I am ashamed to say, darling, that it was
through that unworthy person's suggestion
that I came here from Vienna."

Irene, they have roped in your affectionate
friend,

Mary Jane Dement.

P. S. — The worst of it is that there is no
mystery; that was the invention of Jack Ray-
nor, to arouse my curiosity. James is not a
Thug. He solemnly assures me that in all his
wanderings he has never set foot in Sepoy.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 385

THE EYES OF THE PANTHER

ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS MARRY WHEN INSANE

A MAN and a woman — nature had
done the grouping — sat on a rustic
seat, in the late afternoon. The man
was middle-aged, slender, swarthy,
with the expression of a poet and the complex-
ion of a pirate — a man at whom one would
look again. The woman was young, blonde,
graceful, with something in her figure and
movements suggesting the word ^^ lithe." She
was habited in a gray gown with odd brown
markings in the texture. She may have been
beautiful; one could not readily say, for her
eyes denied attention to all else. They were
gray-green, long and narrow, with an expres-
sion defying analysis. One could only know
that they were disquieting. Cleopatra may
have had such eyes.

The man and the woman talked.
" Yes," said the woman, ^^ I love you, God
knows! But marry you, no. I cannot, will
not."

386 THE COLLECTED WORKS

" Irene, you have said that many times,
yet always have denied me a reason. I've a
right to know, to understand, to feel and
prove my fortitude if I have it. Give me a
reason."

"For loving you?"

The woman was smiling through her tears
and her pallor. That did not stir any sense
of humor in the man.

" No ; there is no reason for that. A reason
for not marrying me. I've a right to know.
I must know. I will know! "

He had risen and was standing before her
with clenched hands, on his face a frown — it
might have been called a scowl. He looked
as if he might attempt to learn by strangling
her. She smiled no more — merely sat look-
ing up into his face with a fixed, set regard
that was utterly without emotion or sentiment.
Yet it had something in it that tamed his re-
sentment and made him shiver.

"You are determined to have my reason?"
she asked in a tone that was entirely mechan-
ical— a tone that might have been her look
made audible.

"If you please — if I'm not asking too
much."

Apparently this lord of creation was yield-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 387

ing some part of his dominion over his co-
creature.

"Very well, you shall know: I am in-
sane."

The man started, then looked incredulous
and was conscious that he ought to be amused.
But, again, the sense of humor failed him in
his need and despite his disbelief he was pro-
foundly disturbed by that which he did not
believe. Between our convictions and our
feelings there is no good understanding.

"That is what the physicians would say,"
the woman continued — " if they knew. I
might myself prefer to call it a case of * pos-
session.' Sit down and hear what I have to
say."

The man silently resumed his seat beside
her on the rustic bench by the wayside. Over-
against them on the eastern side of the valley
the hills were already sunset-flushed and the
stillness all about was of that peculiar quality
that foretells the twilight. Something of
its mysterious and significant solemnity had
imparted itself to the man's mood. In the
spiritual, as in the material world, are signs
and presages of night. Rarely meeting her
look, and whenever he did so conscious of the
indefinable dread with which, despite their

388 THE COLLECTED WORKS

feline beauty, her eyes always affected him,
Jenner Brading listened in silence to the story
told by Irene Marlowe. In deference to the
reader's possible prejudice against the artless
method of an unpractised historian the author
ventures to substitute his own version for hers.

II

A ROOM MAY BE TOO NARROW FOR THREE,
THOUGH ONE IS OUTSIDE

In a little log house containing a single
room sparely and rudely furnished, crouch-
ing on the floor against one of the walls, was
a woman, clasping to her breast a child. Out-
side, a dense unbroken forest extended for
many miles in every direction. This was at
night and the room was black dark: no human
eye could have discerned the woman and the
child. Yet they were observed, narrowly,
vigilantly, with never even a momentary
slackening of attention ; and that is the pivotal
fact upon which this narrative turns.

Charles Marlowe was of the class, now ex-
tinct in this country, of woodmen pioneers —
men who found their most acceptable sur-
roundings in sylvan solitudes that stretched
along the eastern slope of the Mississippi Val-

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 389

ley, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mex-
ico. For more than a hundred years these
men pushed ever westward, generation after
generation, with rifle and ax, reclaiming
from Nature and her savage children here
and there an isolated acreage for the plow, no
sooner reclaimed than surrendered to their
less venturesome but more thrifty successors.
At last they burst through the edge of the
forest into the open country and vanished as
if they had fallen over a cliff. The woodman
pioneer is no more; the pioneer of the plains —
he whose easy task it was to subdue for occu-
pancy two-thirds of the country in a single
generation — is another and inferior creation.
With Charles Marlowe in the wilderness,
sharing the dangers, hardships and privations
of that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife
and child, to whom, in the manner of his
class, in which the domestic virtues were a
religion, he was passionately attached. The
woman was still young enough to be comely,
new enough to the awful isolation of her lot
to be cheerful. By withholding the large
capacity for happiness which the simple satis-
factions of the forest life could not have filled,
Heaven had dealt honorably with her. In her
light household tasks, her child, her husband

390 THE COLLECTED WORKS

and her few foolish books, she found abundant
provision for her needs.

One morning in midsummer Marlowe took
down his rifle from the wooden hooks on the
wall and signified his intention of getting
game.

"We've meat enough," said the wife;
" please don't go out to-day. I dreamed last
night, O, such a dreadful thing! I cannot
recollect it, but I'm almost sure that it will
come to pass if you go out."

It is painful to confess that Marlowe re-
ceived this solemn statement with less of grav-
ity than was due to the mysterious nature of
the calamity foreshadowed. In truth, he
laughed.

" Try to remember," he said. " Maybe you
dreamed that Baby had lost the power of
speech."

The conjecture was obviously suggested by
the fact that Baby, clinging to the fringe of his
hunting-coat with all her ten pudgy thumbs
was at that moment uttering her sense of the
situation in a series of exultant goo-goos in-
spired by sight of her father's raccoon-skin
cap.

The woman yielded: lacking the gift of
humor she could not hold out against his

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 391

kindly badinage. So, with a kiss for the
mother and a kiss for the child, he left the
house and closed the door upon his happiness
forever.

At nightfall he had not returned. The
woman prepared supper and waited. Then
she put Baby to bed and sang softly to her
until she slept. By this time the fire on the
hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had
burned out and the room was lighted by a
single candle. This she afterward placed in
the open window as a sign and welcome to the
hunter if he should approach from that side.
She had thoughtfully closed and barred the
door against such wild animals as might pre-
fer it to an open window — of the habits of
beasts of prey in entering a house uninvited
she was not advised, though with true female
prevision she may have considered the possi-
bility of their entrance by way of the chimney.
As the night wore on she became not less
anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested
her arms upon the bed by the child and her
head upon the arms. The candle in the win-
dow burned down to the socket, sputtered and
flared a moment and went out unobserved; for
the woman slept and dreamed.

In her dreams she sat beside the cradle of a

892 THE COLLECTED WORKS

second child. The first one was dead. The
father was dead. The home in the forest was
lost and the dwelling in which she lived was
unfamiliar. There were heavy oaken doors,
always closed, and outside the windows,
fastened into the thick stone walls, were iron
bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision
against Indians. All this she noted with an
infinite self-pity, but without surprise — an
emotion unknown in dreams. The child in
the cradle was invisible under its coverlet
which something impelled her to remove.
She did so, disclosing the face of a wild ani-
mal! In the shock of this dreadful revelation
the dreamer awoke, trembling in the darkness
of her cabin in the wood.

As a sense of her actual surroundings came
slowly back to her she felt for the child that
was not a dream, and assured herself by its
breathing that all was well with it; nor could
she forbear to pass a hand lightly across its
face. Then, moved by some impulse for
which she probably could not have accounted,
she rose and took the sleeping babe in her
arms, holding it close against her breast. The
head of the child's cot was against the wall
to which the woman now turned her back as
she stood. Lifting her eyes she saw two bright

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 393

objects starring the darkness with a reddish-
green glow. She took them to be two coals on
the hearth, but with her returning sense of
direction came the disquieting consciousness
that they were not in that quarter of the room,
moreover were too high, being nearly at the
level of the eyes — of her own eyes. For these
were the eyes of a panther.

The beast was at the open window directly
opposite and not five paces away. Nothing
but those terrible eyes was visible, but in
the dreadful tumult of her feelings as the
situation disclosed itself to her understanding
she somehow knew that the animal was stand-
ing on its hinder feet, supporting itself with
its paws on the window-ledge. That signified
a malign interest — not the mere gratification
of an indolent curiosity. The consciousness
of the attitude was an added horror, accentuat-
ing the menace of those awful eyes, in whose
steadfast fire her strength and courage were
alike consumed. Under their silent question-
ing she shuddered and turned sick. Her
knees failed her, and by degrees, instinctively
striving to avoid a sudden movement that
might bring the beast upon her, she sank to the
floor, crouched against the wall and tried to
shield the babe with her trembling body with-

394 THE COLLECTED WORKS

out withdrawing her gaze from the luminous
orbs that were killing her. No thought of her
husband came to her in her agony — no hope
nor suggestion of rescue or escape. Her
capacity for thought and feeling had nar-
rowed to the dimensions of a single emotion —
fear of the animal's spring, of the impact of its
body, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel
of its teeth in her throat, the mangling of her
babe. Motionless now and in absolute si-
lence, she awaited her doom, the moments
growing to hours, to years, to ages; and still
those devilish eyes maintained their watch.

Returning to his cabin late at night with
a deer on his shoulders Charles Marlowe tried
the door. It did not yield. He knocked;
there was no answer. He laid down his deer
and went round to the window. As he turned
the angle of the building he fancied he heard
a sound as of stealthy footfalls and a rustling
in the undergrowth of the forest, but they
were too slight for certainty, even to his
practised ear. Approaching the window, and
to his surprise finding it open, he threw his
leg over the sill and entered. All was dark-
ness and silence. He groped his way to the
fire-place, struck a match and lit a candle.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 395

Then he looked about. Cowering on the floor
against a wall was his wife, clasping his child.
As he sprang toward her she rose and broke
into laughter, long, loud, and mechanical, de-
void of gladness and devoid of sense — the
laughter that is not out of keeping with the
clanking of a chain. Hardly knowing what
he did he extended his arms. She laid the
babe in them. It was dead — pressed to death
in its mother's embrace.

Ill

THE THEORY OF THE DEFENSE

That is what occurred during a night in a
forest, but not all of it did Irene Marlowe re-
late to Jenner Brading; not all of it was
known to her. When she had concluded the
sun was below the horizon and the long sum-
mer twilight had begun to deepen in the hol-
lows of the land. For some moments Brading
was silent, expecting the narrative to be car-
ried forward to some definite connection with
the conversation introducing it; but the nar-
rator was as silent as he, her face averted, her
hands clasping and unclasping themselves as
they lay in her lap, with a singular suggestion
of an activity independent of her will.

396 THE COLLECTED WORKS

"It is a sad, a terrible story," said Bra-
ding at last, " but I do not understand. You
call Charles Marlowe father; that I know.
That he is old before his time, broken by some
great sorrow, I have seen, or thought I saw.
iBut, pardon me, you said that you — that
you "

"That I am insane," said the girl, without
a movement of head or body.

" But, Irene, you say — please, dear, do not
look away from me — you say that the child
was dead, not demented."

"Yes, that one — I am the second. I was
born three months after that night, my
mother being mercifully permitted to lay
down her life in giving me mine."

Brading was again silent; he was a trifle
dazed and could not at once think of the right
thing to say. Her face was still turned away.
In his embarrassment he reached impulsively
toward the hands that lay closing and unclos-
ing in her lap, but something — he could not
have said what — restrained him. He then re-
membered, vaguely, that he had never alto-
gether cared to take her hand.

" Is it likely," she resumed, " that a person
born under such circumstances is like others —
is what you call sane? "

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 397

Brading did not reply; he was preoccupied
with a new thought that was taking shape in
his mind — ^what a scientist would have called
an hypothesis; a detective, a theory. It might
throw an added light, albeit a lurid one, upon
such doubt of her sanity as her own assertion
had not dispelled.

The country was still new and, outside the
villages, sparsely populated. The profes-
sional hunter was still a familiar figure, and
among his trophies were heads and pelts of
the larger kinds of game. Tales variously
credible of nocturnal meetings with savage
animals in lonely roads were sometimes cur-
rent, passed through the customary stages of
growth and decay, and were forgotten. A
recent addition to these popular apocrypha,
originating, apparently, by spontaneous gen-
eration in several households, was of a panther
which had frightened some of their members
by looking in at windows by night. The yarn
had caused its little ripple of excitement — had
even attained to the distinction of a place in
the local newspaper; but Brading had given it
no attention. Its likeness to the story to which
he had just listened now impressed him as
perhaps more than accidental. Was it not
possible that the one story had suggested the

398 THE COLLECTED WORKS

other — that finding congenial conditions in a
morbid mind and a fertile fancy, it had grown
to the tragic tale that he had heard?

Brading recalled certain circumstances of
the girl's history and disposition, of which,
with love's incuriosity, he had hitherto been
heedless — such as her solitary life with her
father, at whose house no one, apparently, was
an acceptable visitor and her strange fear of
the night, by which those who knew her best
accounted for her never being seen after dark.
Surely in such a mind imagination once
kindled might burn with a lawless flame, pen-
etrating and enveloping the entire structure.
That she was mad, though the conviction
gave him the acutest pain, he could no longer
doubt; she had only mistaken an effect of her
mental disorder for its cause, bringing into
imaginary relation with her own personality
the vagaries of the local myth-makers. With
some vague intention of testing his new
" theory," and no very definite notion of how
to set about it he said, gravely, but with hesit-
ation:

" Irene, dear, tell me — I beg you will not
take offence, but tell me "

" I have told you," she interrupted, speak-
ing with a passionate earnestness that he had

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 399

not known her to show — " I have already told
you that we cannot marry; is anything else
worth saying?"

Before he could stop her she had sprung
from her seat and without another word or
look was gliding away among the trees toward
her father's house. Brading had risen to de-
tain her; he stood watching her in silence until
she had vanished in the gloom. Suddenly he
started as if he had been shot; his face took
on an expression of amazement and alarm: in
one of the black shadows into which she had
disappeared he had caught a quick, brief
glimpse of shining eyes! For an instant he
was dazed and irresolute; then he dashed
into the wood after her, shouting: "Irene,
Irene, lookout! The panther! The panther!"

In a moment he had passed through the
fringe of forest into open ground and saw
the girl's gray skirt vanishing into her father's
door. No panther was visible.

IV

AN APPEAL TO THE CONSCIENCE OF GOD

Jenner Brading, attorn ey-at-law, lived in a
cottage at the edge of the town. Directly be-
hind the dwelling was the forest. Being a

400 THE COLLECTED WORKS

bachelor, and therefore, by the Draconian
moral code of the time and place denied the
services of the only species of domestic serv-
ant known thereabout, the "hired girl," he
boarded at the village hotel, v^here also was
his office. The woodside cottage was merely a
lodging maintained — at ho great cost, to be
sure — as an evidence of prosperity and re-
spectability. It would hardly do for one to
whom the local newspaper had pointed with
pride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to
be " homeless," albeit he may sometimes have
suspected that the words " home " and
"house" were not strictly synonymous. In-
deed, his consciousness of the disparity and his
will to harmonize it were matters of logical
inference, for it was generally reported that
soon after the cottage was built its owner had
made a futile venture in the direction of mar-
riage— had, in truth, gone so far as to be re-
jected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter
of Old Man Marlowe, the recluse. This was
publicly believed because he had told it him-
self and she had not — a reversal of the usual
order of things which could hardly fail to
carry conviction.

Bradihg's bedroom was at the rear of the
house, with a single window facing the forest.

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 401

One night he was awakened by a noise at that
window; he could hardly have said what it
was like. With a little thrill of the nerves he
sat up in bed and laid hold of the revolver
which, with a forethought most commend-
able in one addicted to the habit of sleeping
on the ground floor with an open window, he
had put under his pillow. The room was in
absolute darkness, but being unterrified he
knew where to direct his eyes, and there he
held them, awaiting in silence what further
might occur. He could now dimly discern
the aperture— a square of lighter black.
Presently there appeared at its lower edge two
gleaming eyes that burned with a malignant
lustre inexpressibly terrible! Brading's heart
gave a great jump, then seemed to stand still.
A chill passed along his spine and through his
hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. He
could not have cried out — not to save his life ;
but being a man of courage he would not, to
save his life, have done so if he had been able.
Some trepidation his coward body might feel,
but his spirit was of sterner stuff. Slowly the
shining eyes rose with a steady motion that
seemed an approach, and slowly rose Bra-
ding's right hand, holding the pistol. He
fired 1

402 THE COLLECTED WORKS

Blinded by the flash and stunned by the re-
port, Brading nevertheless heard, or fancied
that he heard, the wild, high scream of the
panther, so human in sound, so devilish in
suggestion. Leaping from the bed he hastily
clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang
from the door, meeting two or three men who
came running up from the road. A brief
explanation was followed by a cautious search
of the house. The grass was wet with dew;
beneath the window it had been trodden and
partly leveled for a wide space, from which
a devious trail, visible in the light of a lan-
tern, led away into the bushes. One of the
men stumbled and fell upon his hands, which
as he rose and rubbed them together were
slippery. On examination they were seen to
be red with blood.

An encounter, unarmed, with a wounded
panther was not agreeable to their taste; all
but Brading turned back. He, with lantern
and pistol, pushed courageously forward into
the wood. Passing through a difficult under-
growth he came into a small opening, and
there his courage had its reward, for there he
found the body of his victim. But it was no
panther. What it was is told, even to this day,
upon a weather-worn headstone in the village

OF AMBROSE BIERCE 403

churchyard, and for many years was attested
daily at the graveside by the bent figure and
sorrow-seamed face of Old Man Marlowe, to
whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, un-
happy child, peace. Peace and reparation.

i

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