anger, clad all in black and
wearing an impenetrable mask.

"Who are you that you dare to block my way?" demanded the soldier.

Then the stranger drew aside his mask, and the soldier knew that he was
Death.

"Have you come for me?" asked the soldier. "If so, I will not go with
you; so go your way alone."

But Death held out his bony hand and beckoned to the soldier.

"No," cried the soldier, resolutely; "my time is not come. See, here
are the histories I am writing--no hand but mine can finish them--I
will not go till they are done!"

"I have ridden by your side day and night," said Death; "I have hovered
about you on a hundred battlefields, but no sight of me could chill
your heart till now, and now I hold you in my power. Come!"

And with these words Death seized upon the soldier and strove to bear
him hence, but the soldier struggled so desperately that he prevailed
against Death, and the strange phantom departed alone. Then when he
had gone the soldier found upon his throat the imprint of Death's cruel
fingers--so fierce had been the struggle. And nothing could wash away
the marks--nay, not all the skill in the world could wash them away,
for they were disease, lingering, agonizing, fatal disease. But with
quiet valor the soldier returned to his histories, and for many days
thereafter he toiled upon them as the last and best work of his noble
life.

"How pale and thin the soldier is getting," said the people. "His hair
is whitening and his eyes are weary. He should not have undertaken the
histories--the labor is killing him."

They did not know of his struggle with Death, nor had they seen the
marks upon the soldier's throat. But the physicians who came to him,
and saw the marks of Death's cruel fingers, shook their heads and said
the soldier could not live to complete the work upon which his whole
heart was set. And the soldier knew it, too, and many a time he paused
in his writing and laid his pen aside and bowed his head upon his hands
and strove for consolation in the thought of the great fame he had
already won. But there was no consolation in all this. So when Death
came a second time he found the soldier weak and trembling and
emaciated.

"It would be vain of you to struggle with me now," said Death. "My
poison is in your veins, and, see, my dew is on your brow. But you are
a brave man, and I will not bear you with me till you have asked one
favor, which I will grant."

"Give me a