“Ah,” said the officer.  “They saw us down the valley.”

“I couldn’t see you,” said Miles.

The officer smiled.  “You’re not an Indian, Lieutenant.  Besides, they were out on the plain and had a farther view behind the ridge.”  And Miles answered not a word.

General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors, has never but twice told the story of that night of forty years ago.  But he believes that when his time comes, and he goes to join the majority, he will know again the presence which guarded him through the blackness of it, and among the angel legions he looks to find an angel, a messenger, who was his friend.

MARKHEIM

BY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

In one of the old Greek tragedies, after the actors on the stage have played their parts and the chorus in the orchestra below has hinted mysteriously of crime and retribution, the doors of the palace in the background suddenly fly apart.  There stands the criminal queen.  She confesses her crime and explains the reason for it.  So sometimes a story opens the doors of a character’s heart and mind, and invites us to look within.  Such a story is called psychological.  Sometimes there is action, not for action’s sake, but for its revelation of character.  Sometimes nothing happens.  “This,” says Bliss Perry, “may be precisely what most interests us, because we are made to understand what it is that inhibits action.”  In the story of this type we see the moods of the character; we watch motives appear, encounter other motives, and retreat or advance.  In short, we are allowed to observe the man’s mental processes until we understand him.

The emotional value of this story may be stated in the words of C. T. Winchester: 

“We may lay it down as a rule that those emotions which are intimately related to the conduct of life are of higher rank than those which are not; and that, consequently, the emotions highest of all are those related to the deciding forces of life, the affections, and the conscience.”

MARKHEIM

[Footnote:  From “The Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.]

“Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of various kinds.  Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge.  Some are dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, “and in that case,” he continued, “I profit by my virtue.”

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop.  At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.