The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October, 1834Various
General
The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October, 1834
Various
American literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals
She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him,
she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot
through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the
ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she
looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with
enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and
melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly
passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers
who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable
horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and
impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow
street.
"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place
where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why
do you not run?"
"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille,
clinging to the stranger's side.
"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt
not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the
spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged
animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save
_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock
directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her
side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was
poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and
terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive
her.
"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"
"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well.
_This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."
But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him
at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the
confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did
not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now
insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home;
and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was
forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the
humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely
crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was
insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to
beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the
most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the
least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking
even a stranger in peril."
He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer;
and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush
of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was
put aside.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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