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"Follow? Whither?" said the old general with a cynical air.

"To the strongholds of the enemies of Mexico," cried the youth, without a moment's hesitation.

"Indeed. And you know who they are?"

"Who does not?"

"Yes, yes," sighed the old man, "and yet each of these whom you would denounce so promptly, is an enemy for no other reason than that he has drawn his sword in the same spirit and for the self-same spirit that you avow-to rid Mexico of her foes. Each have I in turn hailed as a deliverer, only to find him in turn proclaimed the common enemy. Don Alexander, I will without shame make a confession to the son of my old friend. To each of these enemies of Mexico have I in turn contributed funds. Each in turn calls at my door, and to each have I been a friend, and I know not which will be the first to hang me from a rafter of my own

roof. What you really wish is that I shall point out to you the true leader, in all this turmoil, that you may draw your sword for the true cause? Is it not so?"

"That first," replied Don Alexander, "and after to meet the beautiful Senorita."

"Better the second first, my young friend," laughed the old man, "but wait. Amuse yourself here awhile and we will see."

Left to himself, Don Alexander first gazed about the apartment, and then drew from its place on the wall the old sword. Glancing furtively about him, he unsheathed the weapon, and placing it carefully, in an upright position on the floor, kneeled before it and reached his lips to the hilt.

How long he had remained in this quixotic posture, Don Alexander did not know. He was aroused by the touch of a soft hand, and then he remembered that he had heard footsteps. a moment before. He stammered to

his feet. He was not devoid of common sense, and felt the absurdity and extravagance of his position. And yet he was in too deadly earnest to forego the substance of his pilgrimage. He was looking into the dark eyes of a beautiful maiden, the most beautiful he had ever seen, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Do not do so," she was saying, "it is terrible. You are so young and earnest, and they are all so unspeakably wicked."

"Mexico" began the youth.

"Aye, Mexico!" replied the girl, impatiently. "Mexico is becoming a devouring monster. How dare I tell you? Do you know what they are doing this minute? No, and I cannot tell you. I cannot bare the secrets of my father's house. But they But they shall not have you!"

"I have come to seek service!" "Seek death rather! Each is worse than the other. Hush, and I will tell you. I will tell," she added fiercely, "I will save at least one. They must let me do that."

"I do not understand."

"Hush! Do not speak. Hide there, behind the great bookcase. They will soon be back and I will tell them that you have gone."

"They? Who?"

"Hush! I will tell or no, you shall hear for yourself. Then you will believe. But come."

She drew him by the hand, as if they were children, to the far end of the hall from where a window opened on a level with the floor and through which they stepped to the ground. Crouching close to the wall, they moved silently but swiftly forward until they reached a low door that led to a basement which underlay a part of the structure. Here they were compelled to pause until they could accustom their eyes to the dim light. The odors were not pleasant. The fierce heat of the outer air caused all of the dampness and heavier and more sluggish gases to settle into the illy-ventilated basement. The walls

dripped with moisture. Lizards scuttled like bats before them. But the girl walked boldly forward as if well accustomed to the way.

At last they reached a point from which earthen steps led upward and the ceiling above their heads seemed both heavier and higher. They were in fact under the old chapel, against which the Ranch houses leaned, and in the care of which its proprietors had shown much piety. At the head of the primitive stairway, they found a trap door that was just large enough to admit them singly.

Don Alexander now found himself in a vaulted room not devoid of pretentions to architectural refinement. A carven crucifix of some magnificence adorned the wall behind the altar, which, in turn, was draped with rich, though much faded, embroideries.

Thither the Signorita Mercia led her astonished charge. To the rear of the altar, and directly behind the crucifix, a panel of dark old oak yielded to her knowing pressure, and admitted them to a small closet. Here her precautions redoubled. The place was dry and dusty. They could hear voices, occasionally raised in altercation.

"You will hear more presently," she whispered. "Sit here." Close against the wall that was nearest to the unknown voices they seated themselves side by side on the floor. Mercia drew aside, very cautiously, a small piece of wood that closed a tiny aperture in the thick adobe wall. So skillfully had this been placed, and so inconspicuous was the opening caused by its removal, that Don Alexander marveled at the cunning of the hand that had effected the device. But speech was now impossible. were practically in the presence of the occupants of a small, but exquisitely furnished chamber, the private cabiret, in fact, of the owner of the place. And there was he himself, seated nervously in a great chair that emphasized his physical insignificance.


"But can you deliver the goods?" said a voice. Mercia softly closed the opening, and pressed her lips close to Alexander's ear as she whispered: "That one who spoke is General Pancha. Next to him is seated General Victoriano; the other is my father, whom you have met. Show no surprise at anything you hear. To be found here is death. Be not surprised that these who are supposed to be mortal enemies, sit in the same room, drink of the same wine, eat from the same table-discuss the same wicked design. It is of you that they are speaking. Now listen."


"Deliver the goods? Why, my dear Pancha, the boy is even kneeling in adoration before my old sword-not my old sword, either, for that I lost at Torreon, but one that I have hung in its place, and that answers well enough. I have but to say the word. He is waiting for my orders. To whom I deliver him, his will he be, body and soul, to live or to die for the cause."

"Damnation! That kind will go anywhere, do anything, see nothing.

For Mexico's sake he would rob old Manuel for me. I have had a hard time to find anyone to do that."

"And no wonder, he has been a great help to the poor. They all love him. Have a care, Pancha. You carry things too far."

"Pshaw! But to come to business; what is your price?"

"What do you bid?"

"If he will do the Manuel job, I will give you half the proceeds, and

remit your payments to the Junta for two years."

"And you, Victoriano? What will you give?"

"I have no Manuels to bleed at present. But Lord help me if I cannot find one with a tool like that to do the work. I bid the same as Pancha here, with this addition, that I will pay you five hundred dollars in silver on the spot, if you will deliver him to me."

"Ha! Ha! Signor Pancha, do you better that?"

"He talks of what he has not," said the other sullenly. "I offer you what I can obtain."

"And I take the bird in hand. He is sold."

"Do you hear? Is it enough?" whispered Mercia, closing the aperture noiselessly. "Need I bare their shame further?"

She led him back. Don Alexander, scarcely able to restrain his rage and grief, groped in his mind for an explanation. His brain seemed numb; he could not think consecutively, progressively, but continually repeated to

himself the same words:

"Sold for Five Hundred Mexican Dollars, sold. Sold to become a cutthroat. Sold!"

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CONFESSIONS OF A HARVARD SENIOR (Continued from page 60)

sors, fits perfectly into the whole. This is a day in the country!

This intimate contact with Nature is satisfying in a measure, but it leads to nothing tangible. It inspires in

one dreams of a great future, but offers no means for their accomplishment. When I am sitting out in the woodlands, I imagine myself as I shall be far in the future. Sitting there far

from men, I note the changing attitude of men towards me as time transpires. Communion with Nature results in the deification of the ego. Perhaps that is why most of the great religious leaders were shepherds, learning to fancy greatness through solitude. It is comforting to conceive yourself as of surpassing greatness, but such conception does not tend to reconcile you with the humbler appraisal of your friends. It may make of you a poet, as it did of David; but, as the German has it, "der Dichter wandelt einsam durch das Leben." Nature cannot take the place of men and books. All three are necessary to me, but the first two most of all. They act as a check on undue inflation, a check that will help much in one's relations with others.

I have written in brief of men and books and Nature. I have indicated that plenty of the last will not compensate for lack of the other two. I have sought to place men above all. I must admit that it is with regard to them that my troubles are greatest. Why? It is the penalty for being a Harvard man, for being "educated." The accepted oracles of the town shun me, lest I expose their fallacies. They, to whom applies the line "a little learning is a dangerous thing," at my approach, grow cold and silent.

I am suffering the penalty for being thought wise. Why I should be thought so, I cannot say. No one has put me to the test, so far as I know. Why should the mere fact that I am a student at a university, where wise and foolishly credulous, educable and uneducable, equally congregate, make me a scholar of authority? should I feel superior to those in whom native wisdom quite overbalances any possible lack of education? I do not. When a man becomes so learned that he can no longer derive pleasure from the company of the wise untutored, he is indeed in a pitiable state.


The majority of our people are intellectual snobs. The bookkeeper, though his balance sheet be ever so faulty, knows too much to consort with the farm laborer; the librarian. finds both impossible. And so it goes in never ending circles, upward and onward, till finally we reach those who acknowledge the existence of no superior, even denying the existence of a God that might outshine them. Poor fools these, poorer even than the despised farmhand, for his opinion at least is sincere, while those of the godless wretch are too self-centered to be even decent.

In the minds of those who have never had the gates of knowledge opened for them, education and aloofness are the same thing. They feel the assumed superiority of the informed man, and are at once repelled. In the magnetic field of life, he is the North pole and they are the South. And he of the North must move southerly before attraction can take place, for while the field is between them attraction is impossible. I have been moving in a southerly direction every summer for several years, but the field is large. Failure has been my portion. I am suffering the penalty of a wisdom greater than I possess, but I am not permitted even to reveal my ignorance.

This will be my last summer in the country. I thought I could overcome my old friends' diffidence, but it is impossible. Hereafter I shall go to places where I am not known, where that terrible accusation of "superior being" will not be tied about my neck. My education has failed to make me loved. It has therefore failed miserably, for it is better by far to be loved than to pose as an unopened encyclopedia. Faust was right.

Durchaus studiert mit heissem Bemühn.

Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor,
Und bin so klug als wie zuvor!



HE Administration's second note to Germany, on questions arising from the destruction of the Lusitania, opens many opportunities for prolonged diplomatic discussion, and there is no reason, at the present writing, for not believing that Germany will avail herself of these obvious openings. For why not? Germany has all along shown an intense desire to win American approval. Her methods have not always been well calculated to secure that end, but her very irritation over what she believes to be a prevailing anti-German sentiment, shows the keenness of her desire to be favorably regarded by the people of the United States.

She would still like to sell some at least of those interned boats. She must realize that President Wilson is still strongly committed to his shippurchase program, and that he can do nothing with Congress on that subject, unless war-zone concessions are made. It is not likely that the United States will refuse to compromise those phases of the question that do not interfere with the success of the Wilson shippurchase plan. For our Mexican negotiations have shown that the President has never been eager to embroil the country in behalf of American citizens who allow their business, or pleasure, to carry them into situations of danger. So long as the discussion continues, the full effect of all that Germany hoped to reap by the destruction of the Lusitania, will be operative. The state of uncertainty will cut ocean travel to England a good 50 per cent. President Wilson will be anxious to bring the discussion to a close before the assembling of Congress. He will wish to bring up his ship-purchase scheme with a a clear

road. He realizes that there is a

strong pro-German element in Congress, and also that Mr. Bryan is very influential among a influential among a certain group there. For these reasons the acute stage of the negotiation is likely to be reached in the late Fall, when the opening sessions of Congress are drawing near, and the President is beginning to feel nervous. Just at present we may look forward, with reasonable certainty, to a prolonged discussion, in polite and even amicable


When the hour for final settlement arrives, it is not impossible that events, rather than changed ideas, may effect an easy adjustment. But if, on the other hand, in the progress of events, the pinch of the British and French blockade becomes more acute, and there are signs that German submarine retaliation is effective, the situation is likely to become very difficult to handle.

But our concern at present is with a more subtile danger-that of a further lapse from strict neutrality on the part of American sentiment. That there has been such a lapse it is unhappily impossible to deny, and in that lies our only serious danger of war. War arises from the passions, rarely indeed from the reason of men. Our country today does not desire war. It is thoroughly opposed to the idea of the participation of the United States in the war. That attitude is our present safety. If the slow alteration of sympathies observable in the past few months continues, and we become more and more partisan in our attitude, there is the gravest danger of our becoming embroiled. Any phase or temporary difficulty of the diplomatic discussion may in that case become a signal for an upflaming of the war spirit, that the administration may be unable to quell.

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