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MacGrath, Harold, 1871-1932

"The Puppet Crown"

Let the
theater be full of light while the play lasted, and let the
curtain fall to a round of huzzas! For a few short hours ago he
had kissed a woman's hand and had looked into her sad brown eyes.
"Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my
prayers go with you." Was not that an amulet? His diplomatic
career! He fell to whistling.
"Ah! que j'aime les militaires!"
More than once the prince felt the sting of envy in his heart at
the sight of this embodiment of supreme nonchalance. It spoke of
a healthy salt in the veins, a salt such as kings themselves can
not always boast of. A foreigner, a republican? No matter; a
gallant man.
"Monsieur," he said impulsively, "you shall always possess my
friendship, once we are well out of this."
"Thanks, your Highness," replied Maurice, and laughing; "the
after-thought is timely!"
The sun lay close to the western rim of hills; an opal sky
encompassed the earth; the air was balmy.
"The French call this St. Martin's summer," said Maurice. "In my
country we call it Indian summer--ah!" lifting in his stirrups.
The army was approaching a hill, when suddenly a whirlwind of
dust rolled over the summit, and immediately a reconnoitering
patrol came dashing into view, waving their sabers aloft.


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