. A dog of Flanders [electronic resource]: and other stories. My hate of him had died away with his young life:I only pitied him with an intense passion of pity. We both perished for a thing so vile. His comrades and men heeded nothing of his words;they arrested me as they would have done a commonfelon. I did not attempt to resist them. I hadbroken my sword and cast it down by his body: itsend was accomplished, its fate was fulfilled : I had nofurther use for it. ; They have brought me hither ; they have given mea full trial, so they say, and to-morrow they will killme. What is the charge agai
. A dog of Flanders [electronic resource]: and other stories. My hate of him had died away with his young life:I only pitied him with an intense passion of pity. We both perished for a thing so vile. His comrades and men heeded nothing of his words;they arrested me as they would have done a commonfelon. I did not attempt to resist them. I hadbroken my sword and cast it down by his body: itsend was accomplished, its fate was fulfilled : I had nofurther use for it. ; They have brought me hither ; they have given mea full trial, so they say, and to-morrow they will killme. What is the charge against me ? That I, a soldierof the Commune, slew a soldier of Versailles. It isenough, more than enough, in these days. I say no-thing. I am glad there should be an end. A BRANCH OF LILAC. 171 If you ask any grace for me, ask only this—that themen who fire on me shall not be the same men bywhose side I fought so long for France. And when they throw my body in the ditch—seehere !—let them bury this branch of lilac with me. It is of no value—it is A PEOVENCE EOSE. ill M I. WAS a Provence rose. A little slender rose, with leaves ofshining green and blossoms of purest white—a little fragile thing, but fair, they said,growing in the casement in a chamber in a street. I remember my birth-country well. A great wildgarden, where roses grew together by millions andtens of millions, all tossing our bright heads in thelight of a southern sun on the edge of an old, old city—old as Rome—whose ruins were clothed with the wildfig-tree, and the scarlet blossom of the climbingcreepers growing tall and free in our glad air ofFrance. I remember how the ruined aqueduct went like adark shadow straight across the plains; how the greenand golden lizards crept in and out and about amongst A PROVENCE ROSE. ]?•< the grasses ; how the cicala sang her song in the moistsultry eves; how the women from the wells cametrooping by, stately as monarchs, with their water-jarsupon their hea
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