The Cigarette.
JULES CLARETIE.
"It was in the time of the war of Don Carlos, the last one, yes, sir. All this Basque country, these environs of Saint Sebastian, these mountains of Guipuzcoa, they have all reeked with blood and powder–and that for months, for long, long months. You must have seen many blackened and torn walls in the country. Yes, you say? Well! those were once farms, houses, abodes of life and happiness; now they are ruins, graveyards, almost. That is war.
"They fought–you should have seen them fight! The Carlists on one side, the soldiers of the government at Madrid on the other. These roads, look you, have beheld long trains of dead and wounded, poor lads who knew that they were doomed to die, and who asked themselves why–why? Civil wars, ah! fine things those civil wars are! And when one thinks that it may commence again to-morrow–who knows? Men are such fools!
"You see how it was; they bring us word, one fine morning, that the king is there, that Don Carlos is come; then it is all plain sailing, the old leaven rises,
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