The wedding-guests scattered in consternation; the friends of the murdered lovers took up their dead and departed; the master of Courance summarily dismissed every living creature from the place, instructed the intendant to close the château, and at nightfall he too left his home, to return no more. His final command, made imperative and solemn, was that no human being should ever be permitted to come within the walls of the park.
From Paris he sent back an express bearing a royal mandate repeating and confirming his injunction prohibiting entry to Courance. Then passed into oblivion Raoul Boismonard du Guesclin, count de Courance. The last descendant of the warlike constable, the only representative of a long line of soldiers and statesmen, closed his life in impenetrable obscurity, and with him one of the great historic families of the realm disappears from the annals of France.
John V. Sears.
THE MARSH.
Safely moored on the dappled water,
The broad green lily-pads dip and sway,
While like a skipper a gray frog rides
The biggest leaf in the tiny bay.
Merrily leap the brown-cheeked waves
To seize the sunlight's liberal gold,
Which strays and wanders among the reeds,
And on the stones of the beach is rolled.
O'er marish meadows, and far beyond,
Silken and green or velvety gray,
Tufted grasses with shifting colors
In the wholesome north wind toss and play.
Lonely and sad, on the sea of green
The cardinal-flower a lighthouse stands,
A scarlet blaze in the morning sun
To guide the honey-bees' toiling bands.
What was it for, this flower's beauty,
Its royal color's marvellous glow,
Not, like a good deed, still rejoicing
The soul that grew it, though no one know?