Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1920)

k Ydii lie, Don Julian," ICrnesto said, "and I think you know it. I think von zcill know it when those red mists of other tonjjues ha\e passed away. Von were my father's friend. ^'on have been, until this hour, my {,'ood friend. You are an iilder man. The least and the most I can do for you, Don Julian, is to leave this country." If the wagginj; timjiue of the World had jjiven Ernesto time to make jjood liis departure, the ensuing' events would be embryonic haiipeninys, but one of the essentials of tongue-wagi,'ing is the amazing inojiportuneness with which it 0])erates. iunesto was dining alone at his club. Like most keenly sensitive, imaginative persons, he was suffering, not so much at ihougln of separation from I'eodora as at the injustice dealt him by his life-long friend. Far, so far that no malice could be imputed, beneath all other thoughts, Feodora's darkly lovely face kept recurring U> him as it had never recurred to him before. A melancholy seeped thru him and his eyes burned with unshed tears. It was strange to him, the whole of it. I'eodora . . . why, it was ab.surd. And yet, these recurrences of her image . . . the t(jnes of her voice . . . the sudden and somehow stinging memory of her ineffably tender palm laid on his arm . . . memories . . . how infinitely are they more potent to disturb than facts ! ]'"or memories are numbered not among the <|uick, but among the dead . . . who. being dead, still live . . . "The melancholy lover broods alone." At first l-"rnesto did not hear the mocking voice nor so much as sense the fact that Don Alvarez was addressing himself to him. A little later, and with infinite implication, it was repeated. "The melancholy lover broods alone . . . "' The blood pounded in Frnesto's head. Don Julian was one matter ... he had housed him and fed him and his suspicions were not without their basis in a jiossible suffering. But Don Alvarez, knowing nothing, caring less, spattering his noisome mud on the spotless robes of Feodora . . . the image of her face shone brightly before him, and he did not know what he had done when he had knocked Don Alvarez down and challenged him to a duel. The duel would be a fatal one to Ernesto. The solitary scholar and ])oet had no more chance than a wisp of straw before the adroitness, the skilled professionalism of Don Alvarez. It would have been laughable had not the matters of life and death been the stakes. "It is sheer murder," said friends of Ernesto. And even the followers of Alvarez showed their teeth and shook their heads, and some made the sign of the cross. "He was full of promise," they said of Ernesto. The red mists may have cleared away, or Julian may have realized that the impending duel meant that Ernesto was defending the honor of his home, or it may have been merely a strong man's sense of the necessity of fair play. The motives that actuate the great deeds of man and men are obscurely conceived. Julian gave no motive for deliberately insulting Don Alvarez and thus taking Ernesto's place in the duel. To F'eodora the two days seemed to be a mist, a sea of blood thru which she, unwitting cause, walked sickishly, dizzily. This duel between Don Julian and Don Alvarez could prove to watching Seville but one thing — a fundament of truth in the talk about her friendship for Ernesto. The motive! that actuate the great deeds of man and men are obscurely conceived. Julian gave no motive for deliberately insulting Don Alvarez and thus taking Ernesto's place in the duel (Ttijenty-miic)