which the young creature wept so much that she put it out of curl; passing hours
and hours in the summer-house, where the operation had been performed.
On the second day (it is my belief she would have gone into a consumption and
died of languor, if the event had been delayed a day longer,) a messenger, with
a trumpet, brought a letter in haste to the Prince of Cleves, who was, as usual,
taking refreshment. "To the High and Mighty Prince," the letter ran. "The
Champion who had the honor of engaging on Wednesday last with his late
Excellency the Rowski of Donnerblitz, presents his compliments to H. S. H. the
Prince of Cleves. Through the medium of the public prints the C. has been made
acquainted with the flattering proposal of His Serene Highness relative to a
union between himself (the Champion) and her Serene Highness the Princess Helen
of Cleves. The Champion accepts with pleasure that polite invitation, and will
have the honor of waiting upon the Prince and Princess of Cleves about half an
hour after the receipt of this letter."
"Tol lol de rol, girl," shouted the Prince with heartfelt joy. (Have you not
remarked, dear friend, how often in novel-books, and on the stage, joy is
announced by the above burst of insensate monosyllables?) "Tol lol de rol. Don
thy best kirtle, child; thy husband will be here anon." And Helen retired to
arrange her toilet for this awful event in the life of a young woman. When she
returned, attired to welcome her defender, her young cheek was as pale as the
white satin slip and orange sprigs she wore.
She was scarce seated on the dais by her father's side, when a huge flourish of
trumpets from without proclaimed the arrival of THE CHAMPION. Helen felt quite
sick: a draught of ether was necessary to restore her tranquillity.
The great door was flung open. He entered,�the same tall warrior, slim, and
beautiful, blazing in shining steel. He approached the Prince's throne,
supported on each side by a friend likewise in armor. He knelt gracefully on one
knee.
"I come," said he in a voice trembling with emotion, "to claim, as per
advertisement, the hand of the lovely Lady Helen." And he held out a copy of the
Allgemeine Zeitung as he spoke.
"Art thou noble, Sir Knight?" asked the Prince of Cleves.
"As noble as yourself," answered the kneeling steel.
"Who answers for thee?"
"I, Karl, Margrave of Godesberg, his father!" said the knight on the right hand,
lifting up his visor.
"And I�Ludwig, Count of Hombourg, his godfather!" said the knight on the left,
doing likewise.
The kneeling knight lifted up his visor now, and looked on Helen.
"I KNEW IT WAS," said she, and fainted as she saw Otto the Archer.
But she was soon brought to, gentles, as I have small need to tell ye. In a very
few days after, a great marriage took place at Cleves under the patronage of
Saint Bugo, Saint Buffo, and Saint Bendigo. After the marriage ceremony, the
happiest and handsomest pair in the world drove off in a chaise-and-four, to
pass the honeymoon at Kissingen. The Lady Theodora, whom we left locked up in
her convent a long while since, was prevailed upon to come back to Godesberg,
where she was reconciled to her husband. Jealous of her daughter-in-law, she
idolized her son, and spoiled all her little grandchildren. And so all are
happy, and my simple tale is done.
I read it in an old, old book, in a mouldy old circulating library. 'Twas
written in the French tongue, by the noble Alexandre Dumas; but 'tis probable
that he stole it from some other, and that the other had filched it from a
former tale-teller. For nothing is new under the sun. Things die and are
reproduced only. And so it is that the forgotten tale of the great Dumas
reappears under the signature of
THERESA MACWHIRTER.
WHISTLEBINKIE, N.B., December 1.
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