just inside the bar, by a strange bearded man, who asked for a newspaper
containing the last war telegrams. He tore his red shirt into narrow
strips, and spent two days with his needle over the pieces and the
tattered remnant of his only white garment; and a few days afterward
the fishermen on the bay were surprised to see what, on nearer approach,
proved to be a rude imitation of the national flag floating from a spar
above the hut.
One evening, as the fog began to drift over the sand-hills, the recluse
sat alone in his hut. The fire was dying unheeded on the hearth, for
he had been sitting there for a long time, completely absorbed in the
blurred pages of an old newspaper. Presently he arose, and, refolding
it,--an operation of great care and delicacy in its tattered
condition,--placed it under the blankets of his bed. He resumed his seat
by the fire, but soon began drumming with his fingers on the arm of his
chair. Eventually this assumed the time and accent of some air. Then
he began to whistle softly and hesitatingly, as if trying to recall
a forgotten tune. Finally this took shape in a rude resemblance, not
unlike that which his flag bore to the national standard, to Yankee
Doodle. Suddenly he stopped.
There was an unmistakable rapping at the door. The blood which had at
first rushed to his face now forsook it and settled slowly around his
heart. He tried to rise, but could not. Then the door was flung open,
and a figure with a scarlet-lined hood and fur mantle stood on the
threshold. With a mighty effort he took one stride to the door. The next
moment he saw the wide mouth and white teeth of the Princess, and was
greeted by a kiss that felt like a baptism.
To tear the hood and mantle from her figure in the sudden fury that
seized him, and to fiercely demand the reason of this masquerade, was
his only return to her greeting. "Why are you here? did you steal these
garments?" he again demanded in her guttural language, as he shook her
roughly by the arm. The Princess hung her head. "Did you?" he screamed,
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