Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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The Missile 9 down the rear stairs to her carriage. She must save him. Yes, the governor was in, he would see her at once, Mon- tignac told her grinning insolently. “Ah, my pretty one, at last I have you alone,” he began at the same time attempting to take her in his arms. “Oh!” she screamed and struck him across the face; but he only held her closer. “Montignac,” shouted the voice of the Baron, from the door. “How dare you ? Begone you dog, at once,” he com- manded, striking the man a heavy blow.” Now, Mademoi- selle, what can I do for you?” “I came to tell you that the message I sent you is worth- less now,” she gasped out. “Oh! no it isn’t,” he answered. “But it soon will be,” cried a voice from the door. And there stood Von Mettre! “Oh !” moaned the girl piteously, as she sank into a chair. “Who are you?” demanded the Baron. “I am Horace von Mettre, confidant of the German gen- eral, and your son.” “Ah ! ah ! so at last I see you, but it will not be for long,” chuckled the Baron drawing nearer the table. “One step more and you’re dead, de Varion,” warned von Mettre, leveling a revolver at the Baron’s head. “Shoot, Monsieur, my attendant will come and then .” That he held the higher card the Baron was well aware. Suddenly he heard a step behind him and wheeled. There stood Montignac, no longer a slave to the other man’s will, but an enemy seeking revenge. In his hand was a revolver. “Now, de Varion, you called me a dog. You promised me the hand of Mademoiselle; you lied.” He shot. At the same time de Varion drew and pulled his trigger. Both fell simultaneously. Von Mettre spang to the girl’s side and hur- ried her out to the waiting carriage, where she sat help- lessly. “My darling,” he whispered gathering her close, “you were true.” — Sarah Eadcliffe, ’17.

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8 The Missile the position of confidant to General von Lux and captain of my own guards whom you have seen. I have long known a price was on my head, placed there by my father. Still I do not fear him.” The girl stood rigidly silent although a tempest surged within her. “My father,” she kept repeating to herself, “My duty, my promise.” There came another voice in her, “The man you 1 .” No, she would not, must not, dare not admit that she loved this man at her side. “I see you are tired,” he said at last. “I will go. Try to get some sleep, for I will procure you a passport to- morrow.” “Thank you,” she murmured, giving him her hand, which he raised to his lips . Then he went out, closing the door soft- ly. For an instant the girl stood transfixed, hands clutched, her nails eating into the soft flesh; but she did not feel the pain. “Oh, what shall I do?” she cried to herself. “If I recant, father will be ki lled. If I go on, I shall go mad. His kind- ness has disarmed me. Why did he not tell me before who he was — who was his father? He was deceiving me. He is the son of M. de Varion. He must die. We have always suflered much at the hands of that house. He must pay.” This was the conflict within her, as she paced restlessly up and down the room like a caged lioness. Suddenly she stopped. Guillaum Montignac, the secretary, what could his presence here mean? Only one thing: Baron de Varion was here also at his estate, Clochone. Feverishly she wrote a note and summoning a porter told him to deliver it the next day. Then as a clock struck three, she at last fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Next day the battle surged with her anew. She had betrayed a man’s trust, sacrificed her honor. What did a mere promise mean in comparison with these facts? He had trusted her, and she would cause his death. The governor had spied on her. At last she could stand it no longer, and after sending a message to Von Mettre that she was sick and unable to see him, she dressed and hurried

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10 The Missile Spring liaoito far as I can tell, no one has been able, as yet, to describe the witchery of the woods in Spring. But the fact remains that there is such a thing. Just go into any wood dur- ing the month of April and see for your- self, Perhaps, it may seem a little damp and dark at first to unaccustomed eyes, but before you know it, you are scrambling around over the rocks looking for ferns. The tiny pink arbutus trailing upon the ground gives you the first feeling of joy, and by the time you have found Jack-in-the-pulpits and lady slippers, you are completely en- chanted. Three lazy lizzards basking in the sun and blink- ing their funny little eyes scurry away at your approach. And on every side the songs of many birds can be heard, and the blended fragrance of flowers and new earth floats to you. The bright sunbeams finding their way through the fresh new leaves dance along until they glance back into your eyes from the little stream on whose bank you are standing. The murmur of this brook now swollen by the spring rains seems to call you on. And you follow along its twisting bank, every minute some new joy. Here you s a diminutive red squirrel on an old log chattering away to his mate, who is hidden up in a nearby tree, and there you see a clump of white and pink azalia beckoning to you to come and gather it. But you follow your little guide the brook, until it turns traitor and leads you from the joy of the woods out into the open again. Franobs Tucker Bryan, ’ 18 . We laugh at teachers’ jokes. No matter what they be. Not because they’re funny. But because it’s policy.