Fortune favored me at last,

I broke his guard, my weapon passed
Through the caballero's breast-
Down to the earth went Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo

De Ximenes y Ribera

Y Santallos y Herrera

Y de Rivas y Mendoza

Y Quintana y de Rosa

Y Zorilla y-One groan,

And he lay motionless as stone.

The man of many names went down,

Pierced by the sword of PETER BROWN!

Kneeling down, I raised his head;
The caballero faintly said,
"Signor Ingles, fly from Spain
With all speed, for you have slain
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo

De Ximenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera

Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa

Y Zorilla y-" He swooned

With the bleeding from his wound.
If he be living still, or dead,

I never knew; I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.

JEAN VALJEAN THE CONVICT

BY VICTOR HUGO

One evening in the beginning of October, 1815, the Bishop of D- had remained in his bedroom until a late hour. At eight o'clock, feeling that supper was ready, and that his sister might be waiting, he closed his book, rose from the table and walked into the dining-room.

There was a loud rap at the front door. "Come in," said the Bishop. A man entered and stopped; the firelight fell on him; he was hideous. It was a sinister apparition.

"My name is Jean Valjean. I am a galley-slave, and have spent nineteen years in the bagne. I was liberated four days ago, and to-day I have marched twelve leagues. On coming into the town I went to the inn, but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport. I went to another inn, and the landlord said to me, 'Be off!' I went to the prison and the jailer would not take me in. I got into a dog's kennel, but the dog bit me and drove me off. I went in the fields to sleep in the starlight, but there were no stars. I thought it would rain and, as there was no God to prevent it from raining, I came back to town to sleep in a doorway. A good woman pointed to your house and said, 'Go and knock there.' I have money, one hundred francs, fifteen sous, which I have earned by my nineteen years' toil. I will pay. I am very tired and frightfully hungry; will you let me stay?"

"Madame Magloire, you will lay another plate, knife and fork."

"Wait a minute; that will not do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave, a convict, and had just come

from the bagne? Here is my passport, which turns me out wherever I go: 'Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has remained nineteen years at the galleys,-five years for robbing with housebreaking, fourteen years for trying to escape four times. The man is very dangerous.' All the world has turned me out; will you give me some food and a bed? Have you a stable?"

"Madame Magloire, you will put clean sheets on the bed in the alcove. Sit down and warm yourself, sir. We shall sup directly, and your bed will be got ready while we are supping."

"Is it true? What? You will let me stay; you will not turn me out—a convict? You call me, 'Sir'! I really believed you would turn me out, and hence told you at once who I am. I shall have supper; a bed with mattresses and sheets like anybody else! For nineteen years I have not slept in a bed. What is your name, Mr. Landlord?”

"I am a priest living in this house."

"A priest! oh, what a worthy priest! Then you do not want me to pay?"

"No, keep your money. How long did you take earning these one hundred francs?"

"Nineteen years!" The Bishop gave a deep sigh.

Madame Magloire came in bringing a silver spoon and fork, which she placed on the table.

"Madame Magloire, lay them as near as you can to the fire. The night breeze is sharp on the Alps, and you must be cold, sir."

Each time he said "sir in his gentle, grave voice the man's face was illumined. "Sir" to a convict is the glass of water to the shipwrecked sailor. Ignominy thirsts for respect.

"This lamp gives a very bad light." Madame Magloire understood and fetched from the chimney of Monsiegneur's bedroom two silver candlesticks, which she placed on the table ready lighted.

"Monsieur le Curé, you receive me as a friend and light your wax candles for me, and yet I have not hidden from you whence I come.

The Bishop gently touched his hand.

"You need not have told me who you are; this is not my house but the house of Christ. This door does not ask a man whether he has a name, but if he has sorrow. You are suffering, you are hungering and thirsting, and so be welcome. And do not thank me nor say that I am receiving you in my house, for no one is at home here excepting the man who is in need of an asylum. I tell you who are a passer-by, that you are more at home than I am myself. Why do I want to know your name? Besides, before you told it to me, you had one which I knew." "Is that true? You know my name?"

"Yes, you are my brother-you have suffered greatly?" "Oh, the red jacket, the cannon ball on your foot, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, the set of men, the blows, the double chain for nothing, a dungeon for a word, even when you are ill in bed, and the chain-gang! The very dogs are happier. Nineteen years! And now I am forty-six-and the yellow passport!"

If you

"Yes, you have come from a place of sorrow. leave that mournful place with thoughts of hatred and anger against your fellow man, you are worthy of pity; if you leave it with thoughts of kindliness, gentleness and peace, you are worth more than any of us.

Meanwhile Madame Magloire had served the supper. The

Bishop during the whole evening did not utter a word which could remind this man of what he was. He supped with Jean Valjean with the same air and in the same way as if he had been M. Gedeon le Provost or the parish curate. Was not this really charity?

The rooms were so arranged that in order to reach the oratory where the alcove was it was necessary to pass through the Bishop's bedroom. At the moment he went through this room Madame Magloire was putting away the plate in the cupboard over the bed head.

"I trust you will pass a good night," said the Bishop. "Thank you, Monsieur l'Abbé." He suddenly turned, "What! you really lodge me so close to you as that? Who tells you that I have not committed a murder?''

"That concerns God."

The Bishop stretched out two fingers of his right hand and blessed the man, who did not bow his head, and returned to his bedroom.

As two o'clock peeled from the cathedral bell Jean Valjean awoke. One thought held his mind, the six silver forks and spoons and the great ladle which alone was worth two hundred francs, or double what he had earned in nineteen years.

When three o'clock struck it seemed to say, "To work!"' He noiselessly opened his knapsack, took a bar in his right hand, walked toward the door of the adjoining room and pushed it boldly. A badly-oiled hinge suddenly uttered a hoarse prolonged cry in the darkness. Jean Valjean