Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/9

 and is merely one of the million or so tourists. You were saying that”

He heard the two men settle themselves back into a less strained position but, smiling to himself, did not again look round and assumed an air of abstraction.

“Well, you not being a Venetian, probably never heard of the Dandolo box, or, as it's commonly known, the Crusader's Casket. It is supposed to be a holy relic from Constantinople brought back by its conqueror, the Enrico Dandolo, in the thirteenth century. The Doge Marino Faliero, who was beheaded in 1355 was, according to tradition, the first man to desecrate it by opening it, and the superstitious attributed his greed for power and his downfall to whatever it contained. The method of opening it is secret, but he is supposed to have discovered this and—he lost his head. It was sufficiently reverenced, however, so that from then on until the time of Napoleon it was never disturbed, and was carefully guarded. Napoleon, you may know, was in his way a great collector. When he looted Venice in 1797 he heard the story of the casket, was attracted by its history, and carried it away with him to France. There is a story that he was annoyed because of his inability to find the method of opening it and that he was known to have passed hours inspecting it, but. would not permit any forceful means for breaking it, although it had no enormous intrinsic value. That is, to an emperor. It is merely a small, roughly beaten but intricately worked casket of gold studded with crudely cut gems. Tradition says that at last he found the way to open it and—that was the end of his power. He died an exile. When in 1815 France returned to the Venetian republic the four bronze horses and other treasures carried away by Napoleon, she sent also the historic casket and it remained in the treasury until 1849 when, after her heroic resistance, Venice, conquered by famine, fell to the Austrian besiegers.

“Now, it so happened that in the ranks of those who so long fought in her defense was a certain American named Yancey Powell, originally from one of their barbaric States, territories, or whatever they are called, known as Kentucky. A red-headed man who was a fighter, this American. They still tell stories of his steadfast valor and reckless determination. When all was over this Colonel Powell—for he had become a colonel of Venetian artillery—escaped. No one knows how. There are a hundred stories about it. Some said that he swam miles and boarded an American merchantman laying off the island of Murano. Others say that, being an accomplished adventurer, he so ably disguised himself and so well spoke the hated Austrian tongue that he actually succeeded in passing through their lines and eventually made his way back to America. But this is certain—that when he went the Crusader's Casket went with him. No one knows why he chose it when there were jewels rare and priceless at his command—things easier to carry. He could have filled his pockets with jewels, for he had access to the treasury. He could have burdened himself with priceless relics of great value; but this is known, that all he took was the Crusader's Casket, the box brought from Constantinople by the Doge Dandolo in that historic year of 1204. It is enough to make one believe in this theory of reincarnations, is that well-authenticated story; enough to make one question whether he was not—well—two men in one!

“My grandfather fought in that great and stubborn defense and, starved and wounded, was lying there on the flags of the old treasury house when this stubborn, red-headed man, knowing that all was lost, entered to make his farewell. It was this grandfather of mine who told me the story. He told me that the American, a scarecrow in rags, tall, bony, scarred, entered and stood dejectedly in the center of the treasure vaults which he had helped to defend until that ultimate moment of defeat. Everybody knew him. There could be no mistake of identity. He stood for a moment as if thinking in great despair of all that was lost to the accursed Austrian, then slowly, very slowly, he took his sword from its scabbard held it in his hands for a moment as if considering whether he should brook its inevitable relinquishment, lifted it to his lips, kissed it as if in farewell and—swiftly broke it across his knee. He tossed the hilt one way and the broken blade the other. My grandfather was nearly struck by the thrown point, and rolled to one side and into the deeper shadows. He saved that point of blade and was clinging to it when the Austrians came and jerked it from his hands. My grandfather was a man who understood many things, although why he should have cherished that piece of broken sword has always baffled me.