A Soldier's Vanity

Eugene, a soldier who had won notable Fame on the battlefields for his country, was confronted by a haunt stranger, glad in black and wearing a thick mask over his face.

"Who are you and why do you block my path?" Eugene demanded.

The stranger placed a hand on the mask and tore it off, Eugene knew that this stranger blocking his path was death.

"You have come for me?" He asked. "If so, I refuse go with you, so go your way and leave me alone."

But Death held out his bony hand and beckoned to the him.

"No," cried the Eugene resolutely. "It's not yet my time. See, here are

the histories I am writing, no hand but mine can finish them, I will not go

till they are done!"

"I have ridden by your side day and night," said Death "I have been with you on a hundred battlefields, always hovering above you, but no sight of me could instill fear in your heart till now, and now I hold you in my power. Come!"

Almost immediately, Death reached out for Eugene to take him but Eugene wouldn't hear of it. He struggled. He couldn't die yet, he knew it couldn't be his time now. Death gripped his throat in a tight hold in an attempt to choke, Eugene grabbed the bony hand and twisted in anger. The grip was tight and it burned his skin but just like he came, the strange phantom disappeared, leaving the soldier alone.

When the phantom had vansihed, Eugene touched his neck where it had held him and there was an imprint. Five bony fingers round his neck, and no matter how much he rubbed or washed, the marks wouldn't leave. Nothing was able to wash it off. It became like a disease, lingering on him. Agonizingly painful, but with death gone and he still alive, he returned home victoriously.

As the days rolled by the result of his deathly duel began to take a toll on him, he became weaker and leaner and less active in work. He became pale and thin and his hair gradually turned white, his eyes weak and weary and his back bending. The people in the village knew not of his struggle with death as he found no pleasure in telling that part of his tale, neither did they see the marks on his neck because he hid them well. But he couldn't hide it for long. When his health worsened, the village doctor came to him and saw the marks on his neck, the marks of Death's cruel fingers, in pity he shook his head and said that Eugene would not live long enough to complete the work upon which he had dedicated his whole heart to. And Eugene knew it too, and many a time he would pause in his writing, lay his pen aside and bow his head on his desk and cry. He would seek consolation in the thought of his many battles and many victories and fame but there was no consolation.

Death came again a second time and found the soldier weak and trembling and emaciated.

"It would be all in vain if you struggle with me now," Death said. "My poison

is in your veins, and I see it moving rapidly. But you are a brave man, that I must commend and I will not take you with me till you have asked one favor, which

I will grant."

"Give me an hour to ask the favor," said Eugene in a weak voice. "There are so many

things, my histories and stories and all, give me an hour to think and decide what I should ask."

Death respected his wishes and let him be for an hour, and Eugene continued in his thoughts. Before he closed his eyes in death forever, what should he ask of Death that would be worth it?

Eugene thought back over the years, and his whole life came to

him like a lightning flash; the companionship and smiles of kings, the glories of government and political power, the honors of peace, the joys of conquest, the din of battle, the sweets of a quiet home life upon a western prairie, the gentle devotion of a wife, the clamor of noisy boys, and the face of a little girl, there his thoughts lingered and clung.

"Time to complete our work, our books, our histories," he pondered on his ambition. "Ask Death for time to do this last and crowning act of our great life."

But the soldier's ears were deaf to the cries of Ambition; they heard another voice the voice of his heart, and the voice whispered,

"Gracie, Gracie, Gracie."

That was all, no other words but those, and the soldier struggled to his feet and stretched forth his hands and called to Death. Death, hearing him callz came and stood in front of him.

"I have made my choice," said the Eugene.

"The books?" asked Death, with a scornful smile.

"No, not them," said Eugene, "but my little girl, my Gracie! Give me a time of life till I have held her in these arms, and weave he curls and then come for me and I will go without a struggle"

Then Death's hideous aspect was changed, his stern features relaxed and he felt pity for the soldier. Death said, "It shall be so." And he vanished.

Now the Eugene's child was far away, many, many villages from where he lived, beyond a broad, tempestuous ocean. She was not, as

you might think, a little child, although he spoke of her as such. She was a wife and a mother yet even in her womanhood she was

to the Eugene's heart the same little girl he had held upon his knee many times while his rough hands weaved braids into her soft, fair curls.

He called her Gracie now, just as he did

then, when she sat on his knee and played with her dolls. This is the way

of the human heart.

Now the news of his ill and frail health travelled across the sea to Gracie and all the people of the village grieved the last moments of the famous soldier for he was loved by all

and they were bound to him by bonds of patriotic gratitude, since he had

been a brave a soldier upon the battlefields, defending his country.

But the soldier did not heed their words of sympathy. The voice of fame, which, in

the past, had stirred a fever in his blood most pleasantly and gladdened his heart to hear of his achievements awakened no emotion in him now. He thought only of Gracie, and he waited for her.

An old comrade came and held his hand, and talked of the times when they went to the wars together and of this battle and of that, and how such victories were won and cities taken. But the soldier's ears heard no sound of battle now, but with a hungry heart, the soldier waited for Gracie, his little girl.

For a season the soldier seemed quite himself again, and people said "He will live," and they prayed that he might. But their hopes and prayers were in vain. Death's seal was on the soldier, and there was no release.

The last days of the soldier's life were the most beautiful of all, but what a mockery of ambition and fame and all the grand, pretentious things of life they were. They were the triumph of a human heart, and what is better or purer or sweeter than that?

Gracie came and was by his side, and his hungry, fainting heart fed on her dear love and his soul went back with her to the years long gone when she was still little. And he held her hair which was still long and curly and braided flowers into it with a smile on his face as his little girl tells him of her life and his grand children.

And so at last, when Death came and the soldier fell asleep forever, Gracie his little girl, was holding his hands and whispering to him of those days.

Her voice was the last he heard, and he rested on peacefully