CHAPTER VII.

STANARD’S STRANGE VISITOR.

Dress parade, which took place immediately after the above occupied the time until supper. It was growing dark by the time the battalion marched back from mess hall, and the plebes sighed and realized that one more Saturday half holiday was gone. Parson Stanard, with whom we have to do at present, looked around for his fellow members as soon as the plebe company broke ranks. He found to his surprise that they had disappeared suddenly, gone he knew not where. They had gone to put into execution the plot to fool him, but Stanard did not know it. He turned and strolled away by himself in the gathering dusk.

Near Trophy Point, just west of the camp, stands Battle Monument. North of it stretches one of the finest views that the Hudson Valley affords, a winding river reaching the horizon’s end with the mountains of the Highlands sloping to its very shores. The Parson liked that view especially at this “hour of peace.” The Parson was wont to preach long sermons to himself upon the sublimity of nature and the insignificance of man, etc., whenever he walked out there. And so now he seated himself in a quiet nook and soon forgot where he was and everything else about himself.

Others knew where he was, however, and from a safe distance were eying his meditative form. It got darker and darker, stars began to come out one by one, and the moon began to turn from white to golden. All this was lost upon the solitary philosopher, who would probably have remained hidden in his own thoughts until tattoo sounded, had it not been for one unpleasant interruption.

Now the Parson did not like to be interrupted; he looked up with an obvious expression of annoyance, when he became aware of the fact that a figure was approaching him, had stopped and was staring at him. But when the Parson surveyed the figure, he forgot to be annoyed, for it was a very peculiar-looking figure, and moreover it was acting very peculiarly too.

From what the Parson could see of him in the darkness he was an old pack peddler. His figure was bent and stooping, and he bore upon his back a heavy load. As to his face, it was so covered by a growth of heavy black hair and beard that the Parson could see nothing but a pair of twinkling eyes. Such was the man; to the Parson’s infinite amazement he was setting down his pack and preparing to display his wares to him--to him, the refined and cultured Boston scholar.

“Shoe laces, suspenders?” muttered the curious creature, in a low, disagreeable voice.

“No!” said the other, emphatically.

“Matches, collar buttons?”

“No!” cried the Parson, this time angrily.

“Socks, combs, brushes?”

“No! Go away!”

“Hairpins, needles, necklaces?”

“I tell you I don’t want anything!” exclaimed the cadet. “You disturb my meditations, yea, by Zeus, exceedingly! I have no money. I don’t want anything!”

The strange old man paid not the least attention to these emphatic and scholarly remonstrances. He was still fumbling at his pack, about to display the contents. And so the Parson, who was exceedingly provoked at having been interrupted in a most valuable train of thought, seeing the man was persistent, sprang up and started to hurry away in disgust.

And then suddenly he was brought to a halt again, completely, as much startled as if he had been shot through the back. For the old man had raised his voice commandingly and called aloud:

“Stop!”

Completely mystified and not a little alarmed by that extraordinary act, the Parson turned and stared at the weird figure. The peddler was still bent half to the ground, but he had flung back his bushy head and extended his hand in a gesture of command.

“Wh--why!” stammered the amazed cadet. “By Zeus!”

The old man continued to stand, his piercing eyes flashing. And then suddenly he dropped his hand and in a low, singsong voice began to mumble, as if to himself. His very first words rooted the Parson to the spot in amazement and horror.

“Deep within a mountain dreary Lies a cavern old and dark; Where the bones of men lie bleaching In a chamber, cold and stark.”

The Parson had turned as white as any bones; he was gasping, staring at the horrible creature, who knew the secret that the Parson had thought was his friends’ alone to tell. His consternation it is difficult to imagine; the crouching figure saw it, and took advantage of it instantly. Without making another sound, he backed away; beckoning, the Parson following instinctively, helplessly. They stood beneath the protecting shadow of some high bushes, and there once more the weird figure raised his arms, and the amazed cadet quailed and listened:

“’Twas a secret not for mortals Hidden by that cavern walls For beyond those gloomy portals----”

“In the name of all that is holy!” cried the Parson, suddenly. “By the nine Olympians, by the nine Heliconian muses, I abjure you! By the three Cyclos, by the three Centimani, the three Fates, the three Furies, the three Graces! By Acheron and the Styx! By the Pillars of Hercules and the Palladium of Troy. By all that men can mention, yea, by Zeus, I demand to know how you learned this!”

The Parson gasped after that; and the old man went on:

“Silence, rash, presumptuous mortal, Seekest thou the Fates to know? At whose word e’en Zeus doth tremble, Sun and earth and moon below.”

There was nothing like a classical allusion to awe the Parson; convinced of the strange man’s superiority, then, he dared not a word more.

“Bold and reckless those who entered, Risks they ran they never knew. But, once entered their’s the secret, Secret that I tell to you.

“At the hour of midnight venture To that cavern black to go. Fear not! I protection give thee, Keep thee safe from every foe.

“Bear a spade upon thy shoulder; Take thy friends to give thee aid, Deep to dig in search of treasure Once beneath its carpet laid.

“Find a lamp--by you ’twas lighted When you first beheld those halls. ’Tis the secret I shall give thee-- Dig--where’er its shadow falls!”

The old man stopped abruptly. The amazed cadet was staring at him in the utmost consternation. And then suddenly the man raised his hand again.

“Go!” he said.

The Parson followed his finger; it was pointing to the camp; and hesitating but a moment more Stanard turned and started away, his brain reeling so that he could hardly walk, his ears still echoing the words:

“’Tis the secret I shall give thee-- Dig--where’er its shadow falls!”

He never once turned to look back at that mysterious figure. If he had he might have been more surprised than ever. For the figure, hiding behind the bush, flung off its pack, stepped out of the old man’s rags, tore off a heavy false beard and wig and emerged----

Mark Mallory!

He whistled once, and a drum orderly, bribed for the occasion, ran out and hurried off with the things. And Mark rushed over and burst into a group of cadets that stood near.

“It worked! It worked!” he cried. “Oh, you should have seen how it took him in! And he’ll go as sure as we’re alive.”

And just then tattoo sounded and the six villains set out on a run for the camp.

Now Parson Stanard’s scholarly features were solemn enough under any circumstances; when there was anything to make them still more so he was a sight to behold. This was the case that evenings for the Parson, when he fell into line, was looking as if the future destiny of the universe were resting upon his shoulders, and his hilarious comrades were scarcely able to keep from bursting into laughter every time they glanced at him.

He was too busy with his own thoughts to notice them, however. He was so much occupied by speculations upon the mystery of that weird old man that he forgot for a moment to answer to his name at roll call, and had to be poked in the ribs to wake him up. Then the line melted away, and still solemn he marched into his tent and gathered his “wondering” fellow-devils about him.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I have a tale to tell you. I have this day, this very hour, met with an adventure, preternatural or supernatural, that exceeds the capacities of the human intellectualities to appreciate. Gentlemen, I am no believer in signs or auguries; but never did the oracle of Delphi or the Sibyl of Cumea promulgate a prophecy more extraordinary than one----”

“What on earth’s the matter?” cried the six, in obvious amazement.

“You seen a ghost?” inquired Texas.

“No, gentlemen,” said the Parson. “But I have seen some one or something that I should be glad to know was a ghost, something more marvelous than any hitherto recorded, spiritualistic manifestation. And I am sorely perplexed.”

After this and a little more of similar introduction the Parson finally managed to get down to business and tell to his horrified (oh, yes!) companions the tale of his adventure.

“Say look a-here, Parson,” demanded Texas, when he had finished, “you expect us to believe that aire yarn?”

“That’s what I say!” added Mark. “He’s trying to fool us.”

“Gentlemen,” protested the other, “do I look like a man who was joking?”

He didn’t for a fact; he looked like a man who had been through a flour mill.

“But that don’t make any difference,” vowed Mark. “You’re just putting on thet face to help deceive us.”

“By Zeus!” exclaimed the Parson. “Gentlemen, I swear to you that I am serious. I swear it by the bones of my grandfather. I swear----”

“Make it grandmother,” hinted Texas.

“I swear it by the poisons of Colchia,” continued the other indignantly. “By the waters of the Styx, by the sands of the Pactolus, by the spells of Medea, by the thunderbolts of Jove, by the sandals of Mercury----”

The Parson would probably have continued swearing by everything known to mythology, keeping up until “taps” stopped him. But by that time the conspirators saw fit to believe him.

“This is an extraordinary state of affairs,” said Mark, solemnly. “Really, fellows, do you know I think we ought to go?”

“B’gee, so do I,” cried Dewey.

“I was about to extend you an invitation,” said the Parson. “For my