of St. Bartholomew bells.

Suppose he had yielded. Suppose we saw him in the picture standing
quietly, unresistingly, as her soft fingers bound the white badge, that
meant protection and life, to his arm. Would not she, as well as he,
have known that it was a badge of cowardice, and that he wore a heart as
white?

And afterwards, would she have loved the living man, breathing in
air heavy with the hearts' life of his brothers and friends, as she
worshiped the dead man, whose cold body rested forever down deep in
mother earth's brown, soft bosom, but whose very life of life swelled
the great throng of heroes and martyrs who have closed their own eyes
upon life's pictures, that those pictures might shine clearer and
brighter to other eyes?

If the man had yielded, and the picture showed him thus, would we see
the Huguenot lovers adorning half the houses of the land? Most often
they are found in that particular corner of the home belonging to some
maiden--that sacred room of her own, where she prays her prayers, and
lives her most secret life. I have often wondered at the many girls who
hang that especial picture over their fire-places. It must be a case of
unconscious ideality. They realize that love must be so subject to honor
that heart-strings would break for the sake of that honor, if need be,
even though the harmonious love-song of two hearts is hushed; and what
is the love-song of any two beings compared to a life-song of honor
for the world--those wonderful life-songs that we all know? One of them
sings itself so loudly to me now, over ages of romance and history, that
I must let my simple story wait and give way to it for a minute.