extent of commanding every ounce of exertion of which their bodies were
capable. It was here, Gloria, that society began to form itself wrongly,
and the result is the miserable travesty of to-day. Selfishness became
the keynote, and to physical and mental strength was conceded everything
that is desirable in life. Later, this mockery of justice, was partly
recognized, and it was acknowledged to be wrong for the physically
strong to despoil and destroy the physically weak. Even so, the time
is now measurably near when it will be just as reprehensible for the
mentally strong to hold in subjection the mentally weak, and to force
them to bear the grievous burdens which a misconceived civilization has
imposed upon them."
Gloria was now thoroughly interested, but smilingly belied it by saying,
"A history professor I had once lost his position for talking like
that."
The young man barely recognized the interruption.
"The first gleam of hope came with the advent of Christ," he continued.
"So warped and tangled had become the minds of men that the meaning of
Christ's teaching failed utterly to reach human comprehension. They
accepted him as a religious teacher only so far as their selfish desires
led them. They were willing to deny other gods and admit one Creator of
all things, but they split into fragments regarding the creeds and forms
necessary to salvation. In the name of Christ they committed atrocities
that would put to blush the most benighted savages. Their very excesses
in cruelty finally caused a revolution in feeling, and there was
evolved the Christian religion of to-day, a religion almost wholly
selfish and concerned almost entirely in the betterment of life after
death."
The girl regarded Philip for a second in silence, and then quietly
asked, "For the betterment of whose life after death?"
"I was speaking of those who have carried on only the forms of religion.
Wrapped in the sanctity of their own small circle, they feel that their
tiny souls are safe, and that they are following the example and
precepts of Christ.
"The full splendor of Christ's love, the grandeur of His life and
doctrine is to them a thing unknown. The infinite love, the sweet
humility, the gentle charity, the subordination of self that the Master
came to give a cruel, selfish and ignorant world, mean but little more
to us to-day than it did to those to whom He gave it."
"And you who have chosen a military career say this," said the girl as
her brother joined the pair.
To Philip her comment came as something of a shock, for he was
unprepared for these words spoken with such a depth of feeling.
Gloria and Philip Dru spent most of graduation day together. He did not
want to intrude amongst the relatives and friends of his classmates, and
he was eager to continue his acquaintance with Gloria. To the girl, this
serious-minded youth who seemed so strangely out of tune with the
blatant military fanfare, was a distinct novelty. At the final ball she
almost ignored the gallantries of the young officers, in order that she
might have opportunity to lead Dru on to further self-revelation.
The next day in the hurry of packing and departure he saw her only for
an instant, but from her brother he learned that she planned a visit to
the new Post on the Rio Grande near Eagle Pass where Jack Strawn and
Philip were to be stationed after their vacation.
Philip spent his leave, before he went to the new Post, at his Kentucky
home. He wanted to be with his father and mother, and he wanted to read
and think, so he declined the many invitations to visit.
His father was a sturdy farmer of fine natural sense, and with him
Philip never tired of talking when both had leisure.
Old William Dru had inherited nothing save a rundown, badly managed,
heavily mortgaged farm that had been in the family for several
generations. By hard work and strict economy, he had first built it up
into a productive property and had then liquidated the indebtedness. So
successful had he been that he was able to buy small farms for four of
his sons, and give professional education to the other three. He had
accumulated nothing, for he had given as fast as he had made, but his
was a serene and contented old age because of it. What was the hoarding
of money or land in comparison to the satisfaction of seeing each son
happy in the possession of a home and family? The ancestral farm he
intended for Philip, youngest and best beloved, soldier though he was to
be.
All during that hot summer, Philip and his father discussed the ever-
growing unrest of the country, and speculated when the crisis would
come, and how it would end.
Finally, he left his home, and all the associations clustered around it,
and turned his face towards imperial Texas, the field of his new
endeavor.
He reached Fort Magruder at the close of an Autumn day. He thought he
had never known such dry sweet air. Just as the sun was sinking, he
strolled to the bluff around which flowed the turbid waters of the Rio
Grande, and looked across at the gray hills of old Mexico.
CHAPTER III
LOST IN THE DESERT
Autumn drifted into winter, and then with the blossoms of an early
spring, came Gloria.
The Fort was several miles from the station, and Jack and Philip were
there to meet her. As they paced the little board platform, Jack was
nervously happy over the thought of his sister's arrival, and talked of
his plans for entertaining her. Philip on the other hand held himself
well in reserve and gave no outward indication of the deep emotion which
stirred within him. At last the train came and from one of the long
string of Pullmans, Gloria alighted. She kissed her brother and greeted
Philip cordially, and asked him in a tone of banter how he enjoyed army
life. Dru smiled and said, "Much better, Gloria, than you predicted I
would." The baggage was stored away in the buck-board, and Gloria got in
front with Philip and they were off. It was early morning and the dew
was still on the soft mesquite grass, and as the mustang ponies swiftly
drew them over the prairie, it seemed to Gloria that she had awakened in
fairyland.
At the crest of a hill, Philip held the horses for a moment, and Gloria
caught her breath as she saw the valley below. It looked as if some
translucent lake had mirrored the sky. It was the countless blossoms of
the Texas blue-bonnet that lifted their slender stems towards the
morning sun, and hid the earth.
Down into the valley they drove upon the most wonderfully woven carpet
in all the world. Aladdin and his magic looms could never have woven a
fabric such as this. A heavy, delicious perfume permeated the air, and
with glistening eyes and parted lips, Gloria sat dumb in happy
astonishment.
They dipped into the rocky bed of a wet weather stream, climbed out of
the canyon and found themselves within the shadow of Fort Magruder.
Gloria soon saw that the social distractions of the place had little
call for Philip. She learned, too, that he had already won the profound
respect and liking of his brother officers. Jack spoke of him in terms
even more superlative than ever. "He is a born leader of men," he
declared, "and he knows more about engineering and tactics than the
Colonel and all the rest of us put together." Hard student though he
was, Gloria found him ever ready to devote himself to her, and their
rides together over the boundless, flower studded prairies, were a
never ending joy. "Isn't it beautiful--Isn't it wonderful," she would
exclaim. And once she said, "But, Philip, happy as I am, I oftentimes
think of the reeking poverty in the great cities, and wish, in some way,
they could share this with me." Philip looked at her questioningly, but
made no reply.
A visit that was meant for weeks transgressed upon the months, and still
she lingered. One hot June morning found Gloria and Philip far in the
hills on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. They had started at dawn
with the intention of breakfasting with the courtly old haciendado, who
frequently visited at the Post.
After the ceremonious Mexican breakfast, Gloria wanted to see beyond the
rim of the little world that enclosed the hacienda, so they rode to the
end of the valley, tied their horses and climbed to the crest of the
ridge. She was eager to go still further. They went down the hill on the
other side, through a draw and into another valley beyond.
Soldier though he was, Philip was no plainsman, and in retracing their
steps, they missed the draw.
Philip knew that they were not going as they came, but with his months
of experience in the hills, felt sure he could find his way back with
less trouble by continuing as they were. The grass and the shrubs
gradually disappeared as they walked, and soon he realized that they
were on the edge of an alkali desert. Still he thought he could swing
around into the valley from which they started, and they plunged
steadily on, only to see in a few minutes that they were lost.
"What's the matter, Philip?" asked Gloria. "Are we lost?"
"I hope not, we only have to find that draw."
The girl said no more, but walked on side by side with the young
soldier. Both pulled their hats far down over their eyes to shield them
from the glare of the fierce rays of the sun, and did what they could to
keep out the choking clouds of alkali dust that swirled around them at
every step.
Philip, hardened by months of Southwestern service, stood the heat
well, except that his eyes ached, but he saw that Gloria was giving out.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Yes, I am very tired," she answered, "but I can go on if you will let
me rest a moment." Her voice was weak and uncertain and indicated
approaching collapse. And then she said more faintly, "I am afraid,
Philip, we are hopelessly lost."
"Do not be frightened, Gloria, we will soon be out of this if you will
let me carry you."
Just then, the girl staggered and would have fallen had he not caught
her.
He was familiar with heat prostration, and saw that her condition was
not serious, but he knew he must carry her, for to lay her in the
blazing sun would be fatal.
His eyes, already overworked by long hours of study, were swollen and
bloodshot. Sharp pains shot through his head. To stop he feared would be
to court death, so taking Gloria in his arms, he staggered on.
In that vast world of alkali and adobe there was no living thing but
these two. No air was astir, and a pitiless sun beat upon them
unmercifully. Philip's lips were cracked, his tongue was swollen, and
the burning dust almost choked him. He began to see less clearly, and
visions of things he knew to be unreal came to him. With Spartan courage
and indomitable will, he never faltered, but went on. Mirages came and
went, and he could not know whether he saw true or not. Then here and
there he thought he began to see tufts of curly mesquite grass, and in
the distance surely there were cacti. He knew that if he could hold out
a little longer, he could lay his burden in some sort of shade.
With halting steps, with eyes inflamed and strength all but gone, he
finally laid Gloria in the shadow of a giant prickly pear bush, and fell
beside her. He fumbled for his knife and clumsily scraped the needles
from a leaf of the cactus and sliced it in two. The heavy sticky liquid
ran over his hand as he placed the cut side of the leaf to Gloria's
lips. The juice of the plant together with the shade, partially revived
her. Philip, too, sucked the leaf until his parched tongue and throat
became a little more pliable.
"What happened?" demanded Gloria. "Oh! yes, now I remember. I am sorry I
gave out, Philip. I am not acclimated yet. What time is it?"
After pillowing her head more comfortably upon his riding coat, Philip
looked at his watch. "I--I can't just make it out, Gloria," he said. "My
eyes seem blurred. This awful glare seems to have affected them. They'll
be all right in a little while."
Gloria looked at the dial and found that the hands pointed to four
o'clock. They had been lost for six hours, but after their experiences,
it seemed more like as many days. They rested a little while longer
talking but little.
"You carried me," said Gloria once. "I'm ashamed of myself for letting
the heat get the best of me. You shouldn't have carried me, Philip, but
you know I understand and appreciate. How are your eyes now?"
"Oh, they'll be all right," he reiterated, but when he took his hand
from them to look at her, and the light beat upon the inflamed lids, he
winced.
After eating some of the fruit of the prickly pear, which they found too
hot and sweet to be palatable, Philip suggested at half after five that
they should move on. They arose, and the young officer started to lead
the way, peeping from beneath his hand. First he stumbled over a
mesquite bush directly in his path, and next he collided with a giant
cactus standing full in front of him.
"It's no use, Gloria," he said at last. "I can't see the way. You must
lead."
"All right, Philip, I will do the best I can."
For answer, he merely took her hand, and together they started to
retrace their steps. Over the trackless waste of alkali and sagebrush
they trudged. They spoke but little but when they did, their husky,
dust-parched voices made a mockery of their hopeful words.
Though the horizon seemed bounded by a low range of hills, the girl
instinctively turned her steps westward, and entered a draw. She
rounded one of the hills, and just as the sun was sinking, came upon the
valley in which their horses were peacefully grazing.
They mounted and followed the dim trail along which they had ridden that
morning, reaching the hacienda about dark. With many shakings of the
hand, voluble protestations of joy at their delivery from the desert,
