Page:Female Prose Writers of America.djvu/407

This page has been validated.
ANNE T. WILBUR.
365

heads, and glittering with military costumes and arms. The excitement was contagious, and we could not but reflect the gayety and animation which shone in every feature of the various physiognomies about us. It was nearly time, however, to begin to look for the grand event of the day—the procession—so we found a quiet spot where we could see the pageant, and sat down by an open window to breathe the cool air, and listen to the distant music.

With thrilling fife and pealing drum,
And clashing horn, they come! they come!

Gay banners waved, and white plumes danced in the breeze; shining arms, and glittering epaulets; regalia gorgeous in purple and gold; noble steeds and noble riders—came thronging and pouring through the narrow street, and, as they passed slowly along often pausing, as impeded by some obstacle, we could read the motto on every banner, and catch the expression of every face. As I looked at Alice I saw that she had given herself wholly to the excitement of the scene; her face was radiant with pleasure; and her cheek but now pale, crimsoned with the flush of unaccustomed interest. One must indeed have been a stoic not to have shared in the general enthusiasm and joy.

My eyes fairly ached with gazing on the brilliant array, and I had turned them for relief once more upon the face of my new found friend, when I saw her lip quiver convulsively, and the bloom which I had but now noticed, suddenly leave her cheek as colourless as before. She moved hastily from the window, and looking up to me imploringly, said: “Take me away, Florence.” As I passed the window I caught a glimpse of a noble-looking horseman in the uniform of one of the principal companies, and the emotion which his fine features revealed, gave me a clue to that of my friend.

Poor Alice! Alone in the parlour, and away from the sights which had just before given her such unwonted pleasure, she threw herself on the sofa, and wept bitterly. “Dear Florence, you will think me childish,” she said, when the violence of the first passionate burst of feeling had spent itself in tears; “but you must have seen him—my Ernest, my noble, my beloved husband. Oh,