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Updated: June 22, 2025
He wanted to jump over the stove and shake hands with her, but the potatoes were sizzling. Celie Armin! He repeated the name as he stirred the potatoes, and each time he spoke it she nodded. It was decidedly a French name but half a minute's experiment with a few simple sentences of Pierre Breault's language convinced him that the girl understood no word of it. Then he said again: "Celie!"
If the last few minutes had inspired an eagerness for action in his own mind he saw at a glance that something equally exciting had possessed Celie Armin. Spread out on the table were the bits of paper she had brought from her room, and, pointing to them, she again called him by name. That she was laboring under a new and unusual emotion impressed him immediately.
He could talk of Richard Burbage, the first Romeo; of Armin, famous in Shakespeare's clowns and fools; of Heminge and Condell, who edited the First Folio of Shakespeare, which possibly he himself purchased, fresh from the press; of Joseph Taylor, whom it is said Shakespeare personally instructed how to play Hamlet, and the recollection of whose performance enabled Sir William Davenant to impart to Betterton the example and tradition established by the author a model that has lasted to the present day; of Kempe, the original Dogberry, and of the exuberant, merry Richard Tarleton, after whom that comic genius had fashioned his artistic method; of Alleyne, who kept the bear-garden, and who founded the College and Home at Dulwich where they still flourish; of Gabriel Spencer, and his duel with Ben Jonson, wherein he lost his life at the hands of that burly antagonist; of Marlowe "of the mighty line," and his awful and lamentable death stabbed at Deptford by a drunken drawer in a tavern brawl.
"You said Princess Celie the Duke of Rugni " Olaf nodded as he stuffed his pipe bowl. "That's it. Armin is the Duke of Rugni, whatever Rugni is. He was chased off to Siberia a good many years ago, when Celie was a kid, that somebody else could get hold of the Dukedom. Understand? Millions in it, I suppose.
Bram rose to his feet, mumbling softly, and taking what was left of one of the two caribou quarters he again left the cabin. His mad laugh and the snarling outcry of the wolves came to them a moment later. Scarcely had the door closed when Celie Armin ran to Philip and pulled him to the table.
She was Celie Armin, of Copenhagen, Denmark, and had come to Alaska by way of Russia and Siberia and after that had traveled by dog-train. But WHY had she come, and what had happened to make her the companion or prisoner of Bram Johnson? He knew she was trying to tell him.
Spent with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. "Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half viewless they walk in mournful conference together."
One of the dogs emitted a wailing howl and flopped among its comrades in uncanny convulsions. Olaf staggered back, and faced Philip. There was no trace of the fighting grin in his face now. It was set like an iron mask. "GET DOWN!" he shouted. "Do you hear, GET DOWN!" He dropped on his knees, crying out the warning to Armin in the other's language.
The General with the other chiefe captaines and men of Nobilitie wil haue their horse very richly furnished, their saddles of cloth of gold, their bridles fair bossed and tasselled with gold, and silk fringe, bestudded with pearle and precious stones, themselues in very faire armor, which they cal Bullatnoy, made of faire shining steele, yet couered commonly with cloth of golde, and edged round with armin furre, his steele helmet on his head of a very great price, his sword bow and arrowes at his side, his speare in his hand, with another faire helmet, and Shesta pera, or horsemans scepter carried before him.
The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma? "Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty.
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