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The Stronger Vow
Told in Story Form from the Geraldine Farrar Photoplay
By OLIVE CAREW
was carnival night in Seville. Over the ancient city the azure tent of the sky wms hung with the glowing lanterns of the stars and a great, round, softly colored moon was wafted above the cathedral nnacles like one of the balloons in the square below. From every dcony streamers caught the crimson light of the torches and sent it fegming on the soft breeze. From every shadow sounded low jices, quivering, importunate, lilting laughter, kisses.
[Carnival in Seville! Youth and the madness of youth, love and ve’s magic, heat of old passions, old hates wreathed with exquisite lurtesy, like a stiletto wound with rose vines. The masks that the balleros wore covered dark faces, and darker desires, the arch eyes ieping over waving fans were full of strange lights and glows, ladows of the flames that sent tall Troy crashing into embers ages ice.
TAh, but I adore the festal” The girl in the loge above the arionette booth bent forward to uncoil a serpent of confetti 'er the crowd below. The blue lanterns strung along the balny lighted up her strong yet sweetly rounded figure as she did , the proud chin and head set on the white column of neck, e hollows of the young bosom between lace folds of the mania. The man watching her silently from a corner of the box ,ught his breath at her fairness, tho it was an old tale to him. e was a broad fellow, with a thick, stocky figure and a handme face, bitten by the acid of many passions, fearless in a fight, [forgetting in a grudge, unswerving in his purposes. And is girl, with her dark, lusterless wreaths of hair, her arching
brows and proud, highbred beauty, was one of his purposes. He wanted her with a want that ate him like corrosion, and he would have her when his time was ripe.
‘■Do you know, cousin,” she turned to him gaily,
■‘my mother met her fate at
the carnival, and so perhaps
I, too ” She was busy
drawing a golden ribbon thru one of the painted eggshells which the venders sold. ‘‘She sat in a balcony and flung a bauble into the crowd, and my father — who must have been a handsome man then
A romance of love and vengeance in old Seville and the Apache dens of Paris
— caught it and brought it back to her, and that was the beginning. So you see I am really a
daughter of Carnival. I wonder whether
She had lifted the gay toy above her head and tossed it out above the shifting crowds. The others in the box applauded ; even the duenna smiled approval. Dolores De Cordova, of an old Ca.stilian family
whose line ran unbroken and unsullied to the farthest horizons of history, could say, with the old French monarch, ‘‘I am not accountable to conventions, for I am a convention.” Pedro Toral scowled. He hated to be reminded of his distant relationship.
Afterwards, when Dolores was seated, the stranger sprang up beside her. “Is this the end. lady, or beginning ?” whispered
the
he