Page:Century Magazine v069 (centuryillustrat69holl).pdf/881
sparkle as with frost upon the countless funeral wreaths of head-work.
"José opened another door in the farther wall of what seemed a gardener's tool-house. We were in the deserted street. In the distance the sounds of fighting went on. In the direction of the palace and government buildings the sky glowed red with flames. We turned toward the mountains—and liberty."
"A terrible experience," said I, slowly. "And Annunciata?"
"We have brought her up, José and I. He owns the 'Tres Amigos' now."
"So! Montojo is—"
"Evidently," he smiled.
"And Annunciata?" I repeated.
"You have seen her. She brought you the aguardiente."
"Oh!" I exclaimed.
"You see, monsieur, how it is. I am too proud to go back—and—ah, well—it is too late."
The music in the sala struck up once more the world-worn air of "La Paloma."
Down the carved stair tripped Annunciata. The lantern-light fell full upon her Madonna face and laughing mouth, and I thought of Pierre's description of her murdered mother: "The eyes of a saint, the lips of a sinner, the shoulders of a goddess." She leaned over the balustrade and called softly, "Pierre!"
He sprang to his feet, his face transfigured.
"Pardon," he said quickly, "she is calling me; à bientôt, monsieur."
I watched them as they crossed the court, oblivious of the swaying, laughing crowd. In his eyes was the glow of a devotion that rarely comes to a man, but when it does, remains forever; and I knew, with a pang of envy in my empty heart, that it was not pride alone that had kept the pupil of Frédérique a captive in an alien land.
THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG
(AFTER SWINBURNE)
BY HARRY GRAHAM ("COL. D. STREAMER"}
THE numurs Longs they bring
As dew to the dawn of the daytime,
Suspicions of summer to spring!
Let others imagine the time light,
With maidens or books on their knee,
Or live in the languorous lime-light
That tinges the trunk of the Tree.
Let the timorous turn to their tennis
Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong,
But the thing for grown women and men is
The pastime of ping and of pong.
The game of the glorious glamour!
The feeling to fight till you fall!
The hurricane hail and the hammer!
The batter and bruise of the ball!
The brief but bewildering bliss!
The fear of the failure to find it!
The madness at making a miss!
'The sound of the sphere as you smack it,
Derisive, decisive, divine!
The riotous rush of your racket
To mix and to mingle with mine!
The diadem dear to the king is;
How sweet to the singer his song!
To me so the plea of the ping is,
And the passionate plaint of the pong!
I live for it, love for it, like it;
Delight of my dearest of dreams!
To stand and to strive and to strike it;
So certain, so simple it seems!
Then give me the game of the gay time,
The ball on its wandering wing,
The madness that moves in the May-time,
The pong, not to mention the ping!