Yes! Rosa was still throwing up her eyes to his eyes, and cooing "soft nonsense" in his ears; and Lyon was still dwelling on her glances and her tones with lover-like devotion. Suddenly assuming a gay tone, she asked him:

"Where is our ghastly friend, Death! I do not see him anywhere in the room, and I was so anxious to see him unmasked, that I might find out who he is. Where is he? Do you see him anywhere?"

"No; he is not here yet; but doubtless he will make his appearance presently," answered Mr. Berners.

"Do you really not know who he is?"

"Not in the least; nor does any one else here know," replied Mr. Berners.

Suddenly Rosa looked up, started, and with a suppressed cry, muttered:

"Good heavens! Look at Sybil!"

Mr. Berners followed the direction of her gaze across the table, and even he started at the sight of Sybil's face.

That face wore a look of anguish, despair, and desperation that seemed fixed there forever; for in all its agony of passion that tortured and writhen face was as still, cold, hard, and lifeless as marble, except that from its eyes streamed glances as from orbs of fire.

Mr. Berners suddenly turned his eyes from her, and looked up and down the table. Fortunately now every one was too busily engaged in eating, drinking, laughing, talking, flirting, and gossiping to attend to the looks of their hostess.

"I must go and speak to her," said Lyon Berners in extreme anxiety and displeasure, as he left Rosa's side, and made his way around the table, until he stood immediately behind his wife. He touched her on her shoulder to attract her attention. She started as if an adder had stung her, but she never looked around.

"Sybil, my dearest, you are ill. What is the matter?" he whispered, trying to avoid being overheard by others.

"Do NOT touch me! Do not speak to me, unless you wish to see me drop dead or go mad before you!" she answered in tones so full of suppressed energy, that he impulsively drew back.

He waited for a moment in dire dread lest the assembled company should see the state of his wife, and then he ventured to renew his efforts.

"Sybil, my darling, you are really not well. Let me lead you out of this crowded room," he whispered, very gently, laying his hand upon her shoulder.

She dashed it off as if it had been some venomous reptile, and turned upon him a look flaming with fiery wrath.

"Sybil you will certainly draw the attention of our guests," he persisted, with much less gentleness than he had before spoken.

"If you touch me, or speak to me but once more—if you do not leave me on the instant, I will draw the attention of our guests, and draw it with a vengeance too!" she fiercely retorted, never once removing from him her flaming eyes.



CHAPTER XVIII.

LYING IN WAIT.

"He is with her; and they know that I know Where they are, and what they do; they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me left in the drear Empty hall to lament in, for them!—I am here."—BROWNING.

"You are a lunatic, and fit only for a lunatic asylum!" was the angry comment of Lyon Berners, as he turned upon his heel and left his wife.

It was the first time in his life that he had ever spoken angrily to Sybil, or even felt angry with her.

Hitherto he had borne her fierce outbursts of jealousy with "a great patience," feeling, perhaps, that they flamed up from the depths of her burning love for him; feeling, also, that his own thoughtless conduct had caused them.

Now, however, he was thoroughly incensed by the deportment of his wife, and deeply mortified at the effect it might have upon their company.

He went around to the opposite side of the table. He did not again join Rosa, for he dreaded a scene, and even a catastrophe; but he mingled with the crowd, and stood where he could see Sybil, without being seen by her.

Her face remained the same—awful in the marble-like stillness of her agonized features; terrible in the fierceness of her flaming eyes!

This was at length observed by some of the guests, who whispered their comments or enquiries to others. And the hum of voices and the burden of their low-toned talk at length reached the ears or excited the suspicions of Lyon Berners. The ordeal of the supper-table was a frightful trial to him. He longed for it to be over.

At length the longing was gratified—the torture was over. The guests, by twos and by fours, by small groups and large parties, left the supper-room for the saloon, where the musicians struck up a grand march, and the greater portion of the company formed into a leisurely promenade as a gentle exercise after eating, and a prudent prelude to more dancing.

Some among the guests, however, preferred to seat themselves on the sofas that lined the walls, and to rest.

Among these last was Rosa Blondelle, who sat on a corner sofa, and sulked and looked sad and sentimental because Lyon Berners had not spoken to her, or even approached her since he had seen that look on Sybil's face. To the vain and shallow coquette, it was gall and bitterness to perceive that Sybil had still the power, of whatever sort, to keep her own husband and her admirer from her side. So Rosa sat and sorrowed, or seemed to sorrow, on the corner sofa, from which nobody invited her to rise, for there was a very general feeling of disapprobation against the beautiful blonde.

Sybil also sank upon a side seat, where she sat with that same look of agony turned to marble, on her face. Some one came up and invited her to join in the promenade. Scarcely recognizing the speaker, or comprehending what he said, she arose, more like an automaton than a living woman, and let herself be led away to join the march.

But her looks had now attracted very general attention, and occasioned much comment. More than one indiscreet friend or acquaintance had remarked to Mr. Berners:

"Mrs. Berners looks quite ill. I fear the fatigue of this masquerade has been too much for her," or words to that effect.

"Yes," Lyon Berners invariably replied, "she is quite indisposed this evening, suffering indeed; and I have begged her to retire, but I cannot induce her to do so."

"She is too unselfish; she exerts herself too much for the entertainment of her guests," suggested another.

And so the rumor went around the room that Mrs. Berners was suffering from severe illness. And this explanation of her appearance was very generally received; for the outward and silent manifestations of mental anguish are not unlike those of physical agony.

And so, after another quadrille and another waltz, and the final Virginia reel, the company, in consideration of their hostess, began to break up and depart. Some few intimate friends of the family, who had come from a distance to the ball, were to stay all night at Black Hall. These upon their first arrival had been shown to the chambers they were to occupy, and now they knew where to find them. And so, when the last of the departing guests had taken leave of their hostess, and had gone away, these also bade her good-night and retired.

And Sybil remained alone in the deserted drawing-room.

It is sometimes interesting and curious to consider the relative position of the parties concerned, just before the enactment of some terrible tragedy.

The situation at Black Hall was this: The guests were in their chambers, preparing to retire to bed. The servants were engaged in fastening up the house and putting out the lights, only they refrained from interfering with three rooms, where three members of the family still lingered.

In the first of these was the mistress of the house, who, as I said, remained alone in the deserted drawing-room. Sybil stood as if turned to stone, and fixed to the spot—motionless in form and face, except that her lips moved and a hollow monotone issued from them, more like the moan of a lost soul, than the voice of a living woman.

"So all is lost, and nothing left but these—REVENGE and DEATH!" she muttered.

The awful spirit of her race overshadowed her and possessed her. She felt that, to destroy the destroyer of her peace, she would be willing to meet and suffer all that man could inflict upon her body, or devil do to her soul! And so she brooded, until suddenly out of this trance-like state she started, as if a serpent had stung her.

"I linger here," she cried, "while they—Where are they, the traitor and his temptress? I will seek them through the house; I will tear them asunder, and confront them in their treachery."

Meanwhile where were they, the false friend and the fascinated husband?

Lyon Berners, much relieved from anxiety by the departure of the last guests, but still deeply displeased with his wife, had retired to the little morning parlor to collect himself. He stood now upon the rug, with his back to the smouldering fire, absorbed in sombre thought. He loved his wife, bitterly angry as he had been with her this evening, and prone as he was to fall under the spell of the fair siren who was now his temptress. He loved his wife, and he wished to insure her peace. He resolved to break off, at once and forever, the foolish flirtation with a shallow coquette which his deep-hearted Sybil had taken so earnestly. How to do this, occupied his thoughts now. He knew that it would be difficult, or impossible to do it, as long as Rosa Blondelle remained in the same house with himself. He felt that he could not ask her to go and find another home; for to do so would be rude, inhospitable, and even cruel to the homeless and friendless young stranger.

What should he do, then?

It occurred to him that he might make some fair excuse to take Sybil to the city, and spend the ensuing winter there with her, leaving Rosa Blondelle in full possession of Black Hall until she should choose to make arrangements to return to her own country. This or something else must be done, for the flirtation with Rosa must never be resumed. In the midst of these good resolutions he was interrupted.

Meanwhile, Rosa Blondelle had been as deeply mortified and enraged by the sudden desertion and continued coolness of Lyon Berners, as it was in her shallow nature to be. She went to her own room, but she could not remain there. She came out into the long narrow passage leading to the front hall, and she paced up and down with the angry restlessness of a ruffled cat, muttering to herself:

"She shall not take him from me, even if he is her husband! I will not be outrivalled by another woman, even if she is his wife!"

Over and over again she ground these words through her teeth, or other words of the same sort. Suddenly she passed out of the narrow passage into the broad ball, where she noticed that the parlor door was ajar, a light burning within the room, and the shadow of a man thrown across the carpet. She stole to the door, peeped in, and saw Lyon Berners still standing on the rug with his back to the smouldering fire, absorbed in sombre thought.

She slipped in, and dropped her head upon his shoulder and sobbed.

Startled and very much annoyed, he gently tried to raise her head and put her away.

But she only clung the closer, and sobbed the more.

"Rosa! don't! don't, child! Let us have no more of this! It is sinful and dangerous! For your own sake, Rosa, retire to your room!" he gently expostulated.

"Oh! you love me no longer! You love me no longer!" vehemently exclaimed the siren. "That cruel woman has compelled you to forsake me! I told you she would do it, and now she has done it."

"'That woman,' Rosa, is my beloved wife, entitled to my whole faith; yet not even for her will I forsake you; but I will continue to care for you, as a brother for a sister. But, Rosa, this must cease," he gravely added.

"Oh, do not say that! do not! do not fling off the poor lonely heart that you have once gathered to your own!" and she clung to him as closely and wept as wildly as if she had been in earnest.

"Rosa! Rosa!" he whispered eagerly, and in great embarrassment, "my child! be reasonable! Reflect! you have a husband!"

"Ah! name him not! He robbed and left me, and I hate him," she cried.

"And I have a dear and honored wife whose happiness I must guard. Thus you see we can be nothing to each other but brother and sister. A brother's love and care is all that I can offer you, or that you should be willing to accept from me," he continued, as he gently smoothed her fair hair.

"Then give me a brother's kiss," she sighed. "That is not much to ask, and I have no one to kiss me now! So give me a brother's kiss, and let me go!" she pleaded, plaintively.

He hesitated for a moment, and then bending over her, he said:

"It is the first, and for your own sake it must be the last, Rosa!" he pressed his lips to hers.

It was the last as well as the first; for at the meeting of their lips, they were stricken asunder as by the fall of a thunderbolt!

And Sybil, blazing with wrath, like a spirit from the Lake of Fire, stood between them!

Yes! for she looked not human—with her ashen cheeks, and darkened brow, and flaming eyes—with her whole face and form heaving, palpitating, flashing forth the lightnings of anger!

"SYBIL!" exclaimed her husband, thunderstruck, appalled.

She waved her hand towards him, as if to implore or command silence.

"I have nothing to say to you," she muttered, in low and husky tones, as if ashes were in her throat. "But to YOU!" she said, and her voice rose clear and strong as she turned and stretched out her arm towards Rosa, who was leaning in a fainting condition against the wall—"TO YOU, viper, who has stung to death the bosom that warmed you to life—TO YOU, traitress, who has come between the true husband and his wife—TO YOU, thief! who has stolen from your benefactress the sole treasure of her life—TO YOU I have this to say: I will not drive you forth in dishonor from my door this night, nor will I publish your infamy to the world to-morrow, though you have deserved nothing less than these from my hands; but in the morning you must leave the house you have desecrated! for if you do not, or if ever I find your false face here again, I will tread down and crush out your life with less remorse than ever I set heel upon a spider! I will, as I am a Berners! And now, begone, and never let me see your form again!"

Rosa Blondelle, who had stood spell-bound by the terrible gaze and overwhelming words of Sybil, the wronged wife, now suddenly threw up her hands, and with a low cry, fled from the room.

And Sybil dropped her arm and her voice at the same instant, and stood dumb and motionless.

And now, at length, Lyon Berners spoke again.

"Sybil! you have uttered words that nothing on the part of that poor lady should have provoked from you—words that I fear may never be forgotten or forgiven! But—I know that she has a gentle and easy nature. When you are cooler and more rational, I wish you to go to her and be reconciled with her."

"With her! I am a Berners!" answered Sybil, haughtily.

"But you bitterly wrong that lady in your thoughts!"

"Bah! I caught her in your arms! on your breast! her lips clinging to yours!"

"The first and last kiss! I swear it by all my hopes of Heaven, Sybil—a brother's kiss!"

Sybil made a gesture of scorn and disgust.

"If I were not past laughing, I should have to laugh now," she said.

"And you will not believe this?"

She shook her head.

"And you will not be reconciled to this injured young stranger?"

"I! I am a lady—'or long have dreamed so,'" answered Sybil, haughtily. "At least the daughter of an honest mother. And I will not even permit such a woman as that to live under the same roof with me another day. She leaves in the morning."

"The house is yours! You must do as you please! But this I tell you: that in the same hour which sees that poor and friendless young creature driven from the shelter of this roof, I leave it too, and leave it for ever."

If Lyon Berners really meant this, or thought to bring his fiery-hearted wife to terms by the threat, he was mistaken in her character.

"Oh, go!" she answered bitterly—"go! I will not harbor her. And why should I seek to detain you? Your heart has left me already; why should I wish to retain its empty case? Go as soon as you like, Lyon Berners. Good-night, and—good-bye," she said, and with a wave of her hand she passed from the room.

He was mad to have spoken as he did; madder still to let her leave him so! how mad, he was soon to learn.



CHAPTER XIX.

SWOOPING DOWN.

Twice it called, so loudly called With horrid strength beyond the pitch of nature; And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry. A third time it returned with feeble strength, But o' the sudden ceased; as though the words Were smothered rudely in the grappled throat. And all was still again, save the wild blast Which at a distance growled— Oh, it will never from the heart depart! That dreadful cry all in the instant stilled.—BAILLIE.

Lyon Berners remained walking up and down the room some time longer. The lights were all out, and the servants gone to bed. Yet still he continued to pace up and down the parlor floor, until suddenly piercing shrieks smote his ear.

In great terror he started forward and instinctively rushed towards Rosa's room, when the door was suddenly thrown open by Rosa herself, pale, bleeding from a wound in her breast.

"Great Heaven! What is this?" he cried, as, aghast with amazement and sorrow, he supported the ghastly and dying form, and laid it on the sofa, and then sunk on his knees beside it.

"Who, who has done this?" he wildly demanded, as, almost paralyzed with horror, he knelt beside her, and tried to stanch the gushing wound from which her life-blood was fast welling.

"Who, who has done this fiendish deed?" he reiterated in anguish, as he gazed upon her.

She raised her beautiful violet eyes, now fading in death; she opened her bloodless lips, now paling in death, and she gasped forth the words:

"She—Sybil—your wife. I told you she would do it, and she has done it. Sybil Berners has murdered me," she whispered. Then raising herself with a last dying effort, she cried aloud, "Hear, all! Sybil Berners has murdered me." And with this charge upon her lips, she fell back DEAD.

Even in that supreme moment Lyon Berners' first thought, almost his only thought, was for his wife. He looked up to see who was there—who had heard this awful, this fatal charge.

All were there! guests and servants, men and women, drawn there by the dreadful shrieks. All had heard the horrible accusation.

And all stood panic-stricken, as they shrank away from one who stood in their midst.

It was she, Sybil, the accused, whose very aspect accused her more loudly than the dying woman had done; for she stood there, still in her fiery masquerade dress, her face pallid, her eyes blazing, her wild black hair loose and streaming, her crimsoned hand raised and grasping a bloodstained dagger.

"Oh, wretched woman! most wretched woman! What is this that you have done?" groaned Lyon Berners, in unutterable agony—agony not for the dead beauty before him, but for the living wife, whom he felt that he had driven to this deed of desperation. "Oh, Sybil! Sybil! what have you done?" he cried, grinding his hands together.

"I? I have done nothing!" faltered his wife, with pale and tremulous lips.

"Oh, Sybil! Sybil! would to Heaven you had died before this night! Or that I could now give my life for this life that you have madly taken!" moaned Lyon.

"I have taken no life! What do you mean? This is horrible!" exclaimed Sybil, dropping the dagger, and looking around upon her husband and friends, who all shrank from her. "I have taken no life! I am no assassin! Who dares to accuse me?" she demanded, standing up pale and haughty among them.

And then she saw that every lowered eye, every compressed lip, every shuddering and shrinking form, silently accused her.

Mr. Berners had turned again to the dead woman. His hand was eagerly searching for some pulsation at the heart. Soon he ceased his efforts, and arose.

"Vain! vain!" he said, "all is still and lifeless, and growing cold and stiff in death. Oh! my wretched wife!"

"The lady may not be dead! This may be a swoon from loss of blood. In such a swoon she would be pulseless and breathless, or seem so! let me try! I have seen many a swoon from loss of blood, as well as many a death from the same cause, in my military experience," said Captain Pendleton, pushing forward and kneeling by the sofa, and beginning his tests, guided by experience.

His words and actions unbound the spell of horror that had till then held the assembled company still and mute, and now all pressed forward towards the sofa, and bent over the little group there.

"Air! air! friends, if you please! Stand farther off. And some one open a window!" exclaimed Captain Pendleton, peremptorily.

And he was immediately obeyed by the falling off of the crowd, one of whom threw open a window.

"Some one should fetch a physician!" suggested Beatrix Pendleton, whose palsied tongue was now at length unloosed.

And half a dozen gentlemen immediately started for the stables to dispatch a messenger for the village doctor from Blackville.

"And while they are fetching the physician, they should summon the coroner also," suggested a voice from the crowd.

"No! no! not until we have ascertained that life is actually extinct," exclaimed Captain Pendleton, hastily; at the same time seeking and meeting the eyes of Mr. Berners, with a meaning gaze said:

"If we cannot restore the dead woman to life, we must at least try to save the living woman from unspeakable horrors!"

Mr. Berners turned away his head, with a deep groan.

And Captain Pendleton continued his seeming efforts to restore consciousness to the prostrate form before him, until he heard the galloping of the horse that took the messenger away for the doctor, and felt sure that the man could not now receive orders to fetch the coroner also.

Then Captain Pendleton arose and beckoned Miss Tabby Winterose to come towards him. That lady came forward, whimpering as usual, but with an immeasurably greater cause than she had ever possessed before.

"Close her eyes, straighten her limbs, arrange her dress. She is quite dead," said the Captain.

Miss Tabby's voice was lifted up in weeping.

But wilder yet arose the sound of wailing, as the Scotch girl, with the child in her arms, broke through the crowd and cast herself down beside her dead mistress, crying:

"Oh! and is it gone ye are, my bonny leddy? Dead and gone fra us, a' sae suddenly! Oh, bairnie! look down on your puir mither, wham they have murthered—the born deevils."

The poor child, frightened as much by the wild wailing of the nurse as by the sight of his mother's ghastly form, began to scream and to hide his head on Janet's bosom.

"Woman, this is barbarous. Take the boy away from this sight," exclaimed Captain Pendleton, imperatively.

But Janet kept her ground, and continued to weep and wail and apostrophize the dead mother, or appeal to the orphan child. And all the women in the crowd whose tongues had hitherto been paralyzed with horror, now broke forth in tears and sobs, and cries of sympathy and compassion, and—

"Oh, poor murdered young mother! Oh, poor orphaned babe!" or lamentations to the same effect, broke forth on all sides.

"Mr. Berners, you are master of the house. I earnestly exhort you to clear the room of all here, except Miss Winterose and ourselves," said Captain Pendleton in an almost commanding tone.

"Friends and neighbors," cried Lyon Berners, lifting up his voice, so that it could be heard all over the room, "I implore you to withdraw to your own apartments. Your presence here only serves to distress yourselves and embarrass us. And we have a duty to do to the dead."

The crowd began to disperse and move toward the doors when suddenly Sybil Berners lifted her hand on high and called, in a commanding tone:

"STOP!"

And all stopped and turned their eyes on her.

She was still very pale, but now also very calm; the most self-collected one in that room of death.

"I have somewhat to say to you," she continued. "You all heard the dying words of that poor dead woman, in which she accused me of having murdered her; and your own averted eyes accuse me quite as strongly, and my own aspect, perhaps, more strongly than either."

She paused and glanced at her crimsoned hand, and then looked around and saw that her nearest neighbors and oldest friends, who had known her longest and loved her best, now turned away their heads, or dropped their eyes. She resumed:

"The dead woman was mistaken; you are misled; and my very appearance is deceptive. I will not deny that the woman was my enemy. Driven to desperation, and in boiling blood, I might have been capable of doing her a deadly mischief, but bravely and openly, as the sons and daughters of my fiery race have done such things before this. But to go to her chamber in the dead of night, and in darkness and secrecy—! No! I could not have done that, if she had been ten times the enemy she was. Is there one here who believes that the daughter of Bertram Berners could be guilty of that or any other base deed?" she demanded, as her proud glance swept around upon the faces of her assembled friends and neighbors.

But their averted eyes too sorrowfully answered her question.

Then she turned to her husband and lowered her voice to an almost imploring tone as she inquired:

"Lyon Berners, do YOU believe me guilty?"

He looked up, and their eyes met. If he had really believed her guilty he did not now. He answered briefly and firmly:

"No, Sybil! Heaven knows that I do not. But oh! my dear wife! explain, if you can, how that dagger came into your possession, how that blood came upon your hands; and, above all, why this most unhappy lady should have charged you with having murdered her."

"At your desire, and for the satisfaction of the few dear old friends whom I see among this unbelieving crowd, the friends who would deeply grieve if I should either do or suffer wrong, I will speak. But if it were not for you and for them, I would die before I would deign to defend myself from a charge that is at once so atrocious and so preposterous—so monstrous," said Sybil, turning a gaze full of haughty defiance upon those who stood there before her face, and dared to believe her guilty.

A stern voice spoke up from that crowd.

"Mr. Lyon Berners, attend to this. A lady lies murdered in your house. By whom she has been so murdered we do not know. But I tell you that every moment in which you delay in sending for the officers of justice to investigate this affair, compromises you and me and all who stand by and silently submit to this delay, as accessories, after the fact."

Lyon Berners turned towards the speaker, a grave and stern old man of nearly eighty years, a retired judge, who had come to the mask ball escorting his grand-daughters.

"An instant, Judge Basham. Pardon us, if in this dismay some things are forgotten. The coroner shall be summoned immediately. Captain Pendleton, will you oblige me by despatching a messenger to Coroner Taylor at Blackville?" he then inquired, turning to the only friend upon whose discretion he felt he could rely.

Captain Pendleton nodded acquiescence and intelligence, and left the room, as if for the purpose specified.

"Now, dear Sybil, with Judge Basham's permission, give our friends the explanation that you have promised them," said Lyon Berners affectionately, and confidingly taking her hand and placing himself beside her.

For all his anger as well as all her jealousy had been swept away in the terrible tornado of this evening's events.

"The explanation that I promised you, and those who wish me well," she said emphatically. And then her voice arose clear, firm, and distinct, as she continued:

"I was in my chamber, which is immediately above that occupied by Mrs. Blondelle. My chamber is approached by two ways, first by the front passage and stairs, and secondly by a narrow staircase running up from Mrs. Blondelle's room. And the door leading from her room up this staircase and into mine, she has been in the habit of leaving open. To-night, as I said, I was sitting in my chamber; from causes not necessary to explain now and here, I was too much disturbed in mind to think of retiring to rest, or even of undressing. I do not know how long I had sat there, when I heard a piercing shriek from some one in the room below. Instinctively I rushed down the communicating stairs and into Mrs. Blondelle's room, and up to her bed, where I saw by the light of the taper she was lying. Her eyes were closed, and I thought at first that she had fainted from some fright until, almost at the same instant, I saw this dagger—" here Sybil stooped and picked up the dagger that she had dropped a few minutes before—"driven to its haft in her chest. I drew it out. Instantly the blood from the opened wound spirted up, covering my hand and sleeve with the accusing stains you see! With the flowing of the blood her eyes flew wildly open! She gazed affrightedly at me for an instant, and then with the last effort of her life, for which terror lent her strength, she started up and fled shrieking to this room. I, still holding the dagger that I had drawn from her bosom, followed her here. And—you know the rest," said Sybil; and overcome with excitement, she sank upon the nearest chair to rest.

Lyon Berners still held her hand.

Her story had evidently made a very great impression upon the company present. But Lyon Berners suddenly exclaimed:

"Good Heavens! that lady's mistaken charge has put us all off the scent, and allowed the murderer to escape. But it may not yet be too late! Some clue may be left in her room by which we may trace the criminal! Come, neighbors, and let us search the premises."

And Lyon Berners, leaving the shuddering women of the party in the room with Sybil and the dead, and followed by all the men, went to search the house and ground for traces of the assassin.



CHAPTER XX.

THE SEARCH.

My friends, I care not, (so much I am happy Above a number,) if my actions Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw them, Envy and base opinion set against them, To know my life so even.—SHAKSPEARE.

And first they went to Mrs. Blondelle's room, and carefully examined every part of it, especially the fastenings of the doors and windows. They all seemed to be right.

"I have a theory of this murder now!" said Mr. Berners, standing in the middle of the room and speaking to the men who were with him.

"Humph! what is it?" coldly inquired old Judge Basham.

"It is this; that as Mrs. Blondelle was known to have possessed jewels of great value, some miscreant came here with the intention to rob her of them."

"Well, and what then?" asked the Judge.

"That this miscreant entered either by the outer door, or by one of these windows, approached the bed of his victim, who, being awake and seeing him, shrieked, either before or at the moment of receiving the death wound, and then fainted."

"Humph! what next?" grunted the Judge.

"That first shriek brought my wife running to the rescue. At the sound of her approach, of course the murderer turned and fled, escaping through the outer door or window."

"An ingenious story, and a plausible explanation, Mr. Berners; but one, I fear, that will never convince a jury, or satisfy the public," remarked Judge Basham.

"Nay, and it will na satisfy mysel' neither! It'll na do, gentlemen! The murderer didna come through the outer door, nor the windows either! For mysel' fastened them a' before I went to my bed! And yesel's found them fastened when ye cam!" said the Scotch girl Janet, who had now entered the room with the child in her arms.

"But he may have come through the door, my good girl," suggested Mr. Berners, whose very blood seemed to freeze at this testimony of the maid.

"Nay, nay, laird! that will na do either. The murderer could na hae come by the outer door, for mysel' bolted it before I went to bed! And it was still bolted when my puir leddy—Oh, my puir bonny leddy! oh! my puir dear murdered mistress!" broke forth from the girl in sudden and violent lamentations.

"Compose yourself, and tell us all about the bolted door," said Judge Basham.

"Aweel, sir, the door was bolted by mysel', and bolted it stayed until that puir leddy started out of her bed and tore the bolt back, and fled away from before the face of her murderer! too late! oh, too late! for she carried her death wound with her."

"So you see, Mr. Berners, your theory of the murder falls to pieces. This girl's testimony proves that the murderer could not have entered the room, from this floor," said Judge Basham.

"Then he must have been concealed in the room," exclaimed Lyon, desperately.

"Nay, nay! that will na do either, laird. Na mon was hid in the room. Mysel' looked into all the closets, and under the bed, and up the chimney, as I always do before I go to sleep. I could na sleep else. Nay, nay, laird! The murderer came in neither by outer door nor window, nor yet lay hidden in the room; for mysel' had fastened the outer door and window, and searched the room before I slept. Nay, nay, laird! The murderer cam by the only way left open—left open because we thought it was safe—the way leading from Mistress Berners' room down to the little stairs, and through this door which was not bolted," persisted the Scotch girl.

Lyon Berners' heart seemed turned to ice by these last words. Nevertheless he summoned fortitude to say:

"We must examine and see if there has been a robbery committed. If there has been one, then, of course, in the face of all this woman's evidence, it will prove that the robber has done this foul deed."

"I do not see clearly that it will," objected Judge Basham. "However, we will make the examination."

"Your honors need na tak the trouble. Mysel' saw to that too. See, the bureau drawers and wardrobes are all fast locked as me leddy saw me lock them hersel'. And the keys are safe in the pocket of my gown. Nay, nay, lairds, naething is stolen," said Janet.

Nevertheless, Mr. Berners insisted on making the examination. So Janet produced the keys and opened all the bureau drawers, boxes, wardrobes, etc. All things were found in order. In the upper bureau drawer, caskets of jewels, boxes of laces, rolls of bank-notes and other valuables were found untouched. Nothing was missing.

In a word, no clue was found to the supposed murderer and robber; but, on the other hand, every circumstance combined to fix the deed on Sybil.

Lyon Berners felt a faintness like death coming over him, and subduing all his manhood. Unblenchingly, in his own person, he would have braved any fate. But that his wife—his pure, high-toned, magnanimous Sybil, should be caught up and ground to pieces by this horrible machinery of circumstance and destiny! Was this a nightmare? His brain was reeling. He felt that he might go mad. Like the drowning man, he caught at straws. Turning to the Scotch girl, he demanded somewhat sternly:

"And where were you when your mistress was being murdered? where were you, that you did not hasten to her assistance? You could not have been far off—you must in fact have been in that little adjoining nursery."

"And sae I was, laird; and her first screech waked me up and garred me grew sae till I couldna move, and didna move till I heard her screech again and again, and saw her rin acrass the floor, and tear back the bolt and flecht fra the room, followed close behind by Mistress Berners. And thin mysel' sprang up wi' the bairn in me arms and rin after them, thinking the de'il was behind me. Oh, me puir leddy! oh, me puir, bonny leddy! oh! oh! oh!" wept and wailed the girl, dropping down on the floor and throwing her apron over her head.

But the cries of the child from the adjoining nursery caused her to start up, and run in there to comfort him.

The searchers left that room, and pursued their investigations elsewhere. They went all through the house without finding any clue to the mystery. They attempted to search the grounds, but the night was pitch-dark, and the rain was falling fast. Finally, they returned to the room of death.

All the ladies and all the servants had gone away. No one remained in it but Sybil and Miss Tabby, watching the dead.

Sybil sat near the head of the body, and Miss Tabby near the feet.

At the sight of his doomed young wife, Lyon Berners senses reeled again.

"She is so inexperienced in all the ways of the world, so ignorant of the ways of the law! Oh, does she know—does she even dream of the awful position, the deadly danger in which she stands? No; she is unconscious of all peril. She evidently believes that the explanation she gave us here, and which satisfies her friends, will convince all others. Oh, Sybil! Sybil! an hour ago so safe in your domestic sanctity, and now—now momentarily exposed to—Heaven! I cannot bear it!" he groaned, as he struggled for self-command and went towards her.

She was sitting with her hands clasped, as in prayer, and her eyes, full of the deepest regret and pity, fixed upon the face of the dead. There was sorrow, sympathy, awe—anything but fear or distrust in her countenance. At the approach of her husband, she turned and whispered gravely:

"She was my rival where I could least bear rivalry; and I thought she had been a successful one. I do not think so now; and now I have no feeling towards her but one of the deepest compassion. Oh, Lyon, we must adopt her poor child, and rear it for our own. Oh! who has done this deed? Some one whose aim was robbery, no doubt. Has any trace been discovered of the murderer?" she inquired.

"None, Sybil," he answered, with difficulty.

"Oh, Lyon, such awful thoughts have visited me since I have sat here and forced myself to look upon this sight! For I see in it that which I might have done, had my madness become frenzy; but even then, not as this was done. Oh, no, no, no! May God forgive me and change my heart, for I have been standing on the edge of an abyss!"

Mr. Berners could not speak. He was suffocating with the feeling that she now stood upon the brink of ruin yawning to receive her.

"Heaven help you, Sybil!" was the silent prayer of his spirit as he gazed on his unconscious wife.

Miss Tabby, who sat whimpering at the feet of the dead, now spoke up:

"I think," she said, wiping the tear-drop from the end of her nose, "I do think as we ought not to leave it a-lying here, cramped up onto this sofy, where we can't stretch it straight. We ought to have it taken to her room and laid out on her bed, decent and in order."

"It is true; but oh, in a shock like this, how much is forgotten!" said Mr. Berners. Then turning to old Judge Basham, who had sank into an easy-chair to rest, but seemed to consider himself still on the bench, since he assumed so much authority, Lyon inquired, "Do you see any objection to the body being removed to a bedroom before the coroner's arrival?"

"Certainly not. This is not the scene of the murder. You had best take it back to the bed on which she received her death," answered the old Judge.

"Friends," said Mr. Berners, turning to the gentlemen, who had all solemnly and silently seated themselves as at a funeral, "will one of you assist me in this?"

Captain Pendleton, who had just reentered the room, came promptly up.

"By the way, did you send for the coroner, sir?" demanded the old Judge, intercepting him.

"Yes, sir, I did," curtly answered the Captain.

"Then I shall sit here until his arrival," observed the Judge settling himself for a nap in his easy-chair.

"That old fellow is in his dotage!" growled Captain Pendleton to himself, as he tenderly lifted the head and shoulders of all that remained of poor Rosa Blondelle. But at the touch of her cold form, the sight of her still face, tears of pity sprang into the young soldier's eyes. Rosa had been a fine woman, and her body was now no light weight. It took the united strength of Captain Pendleton and Mr. Berners to bear it properly from the parlor to the chamber, where they laid it on the bed, and left it to the care of Sybil and Miss Tabby, who had followed them.

Mr. Berners then pulled the Captain into an empty room and whispered hoarsely:

"Did I understand you to tell the Judge that you had sent a messenger for the coroner?"

"Yes; but mind, I sent an old man on an old mule. It will be many hours before he reaches Blackville; many more before the coroner gets here. Good Heaven! Berners, I had to do that! Don't you see the awful danger of your innocent wife?" exclaimed Captain Pendleton, in an agitated voice.

"Don't I see it? I am not mad, or blind. But you, in the face of this overwhelming evidence—you believe her to be innocent?" demanded Lyon Berners, in a tone of agonized entreaty.

"I know her to be innocent! I have known her from her infancy. She might have flown at a rival, and torn her to pieces, in a frenzy of passion; but she could never have struck a secret blow," answered Captain Pendleton, emphatically.

"Thanks! Oh, thanks for your faith in her!" exclaimed Lyon Berners, earnestly.

"But now! Do you not see what is to be done? She must be got out of the house before the coroner or any officer of justice arrives," said Captain Pendleton, earnestly.

"Oh, this is so sudden and terrible! It is an avalanche—an earthquake! It crushes me. It deprives me of reason!" groaned Lyon Berners, sinking into a chair, and covering his face with his hands.

"Lyon, my friend, arouse yourself! Rise above this agony of despair, if you would save your imperilled wife! She must fly from this house within an hour, and you must accompany her," urged Captain Pendleton.

"I know it! I know it! But oh, Heaven! the anguish of my heart! the chaos of my thoughts! Pendleton, think for me; act for me; tell me what to do!" cried the strong man, utterly overwhelmed and powerless.

Captain Pendleton hurried into the supper-room, the scene of the late revels, and brought from there a glass of brandy, which he forced his friend to swallow.

"Now listen to me, Berners. Go and call your wife, take her to your mutual room, tell her the necessity of instant flight. She is strong, and will be equal to the occasion. Then, quickly as you can collect all your money and jewels, and conceal them about your person. Dress yourself, and tell her to dress in plain stout weather-proof riding-habits. Do this at once. Meanwhile, I will go myself to the stables, and saddle two of the swiftest horses, and bring them around to the back door, so that no servant need to be taken into our confidence to-night. When I meet you with the horses, I will direct you to a temporary retreat where you will be perfectly safe for the present; afterwards we can think of a permanent place of security. Now, then, courage, and hurry!"

"My friend in need!" fervently exclaimed Lyon Berners, as they parted.

"I have further suggestions to make when we meet again. I have thought of everything," Captain Pendleton called after him.

Lyon Berners went in search of Sybil, to the chamber of death, which was now restored to order, and dimly lighted.



CHAPTER XXI.

SYBIL'S FLIGHT.

'Tis well—my soul shakes off its load of care; 'Tis only the obscure is terrible; Imagination frames events unknown, In wild, fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, And what its fears creates.—HANNAH MORE.

Upon the snow-white bed the form of Rosa Blondelle, wrapped in pure white raiment, was laid out. Very peaceful and beautiful she looked, her fair face, framed in its pale gold hair, wearing no sign of the violent death by which she died.

At her head sat Sybil, looking very pale, and shedding silent tears.

At her feet sat Miss Tabby, whimpering and muttering.

Within the little nursery, beyond the chamber, the Scotch girl sat, crying and sobbing.

Lyon Berners softly approached the bed, and whispered to Sybil.

"Dearest, come out, I wish to speak to you."

She silently arose and followed him. He was silent until they had reached their own room.

"Sit down, Sybil," he then said, as calmly as he could force himself to speak.

She sank into a seat and looked at him inquiringly, but fearlessly.

He stood before her unable to proceed. It was terrible to him to witness her utter unconsciousness of her own position—more terrible still to be obliged to arouse her from it.

She continued to regard him with curiosity, but without anxiety, waiting silently for what he should say to her.

"Sybil," he said at length, as soon as he was able to speak—"Sybil, you are a brave and strong spirit! You can meet a sudden calamity without sinking under it."

"What is it?" inquired his wife, in a low tone.

"Sybil, dearest Sybil! there is no time to break the bad news to you; brace yourself to hear it abruptly."

"Yes! tell me."

"Sybil, listen, and comprehend. The circumstances that surround this mysterious murder are of a character to compromise you so seriously, that you may only find safety in immediate flight."

"Me!—flight!" exclaimed Mrs. Berners, dilating her dark eyes in amazement.

Mr. Berners groaned in the spirit, as he replied:

"Yes, Sybil, yes! Oh! my dearest, attend and understand, and be strong! Sybil, hear. The quarrel you were known to have had with this poor woman; the threats you used on that occasion; the dagger in your hand; the blood oh your wrist, and above all the words of the dying woman charging you with her death. All these form a chain of circumstantial and even direct evidence that will drag you down—I cannot say it!" burst forth Lyon in an accession of agony.

Sybil's dark eyes opened wider and wider in amazement, but still without the least alarm.

"It is enough, oh, Sybil, to repeat to you that your only safety is in instant flight," he exclaimed, dropping his face upon his hands.

"Flight!" echoed Sybil, staring at him. "Why should I take refuge in flight? I have done nothing criminal, nor will I do anything so ignominious as to fly from my home, Lyon," she added, proudly.

"But, Sybil—Oh, Sybil! the circumstantial evidence—."

"Why, I explained all that!" replied Mrs. Berners naively. "I told you all how it was: that when I heard her scream, I ran to see what was the matter and I drew the dagger from her bosom, and then the blood spirted up and sprinkled me! It was terrible enough to see and bear that, without having to hear and endure such a preposterous suspicion! And it is all easy enough for any honest mind to understand my explanation."

"Oh, Sybil! Sybil! that indeed—I mean your presence at her death, with all its concurrent circumstances might be explained away! But the dying woman's last solemn declaration, charging you as her murderess, that was the most direct testimony! Oh, Heaven, Sybil! Sybil! prepare for your flight; for in that is your only hope of safety! Prepare at once, for there is not an instant to be lost!"

"Stop!" said Sybil, suddenly and solemnly—"Lyon Berners, do you believe that dying declaration to have been true?"

"No! as the Lord hears me, I do not, Sybil! I know you were incapable of doing the deed she charged upon you! No! I am sure she spoke in the delirium of sudden death and terror," said Lyon Berners earnestly.

"Nor will any one else who knows me, believe it! So be tranquil. I am not guilty, nor will I run away like a guilty one. I will stay here and tell the truth," said Sybil composedly.

"But, oh, good Heavens! telling the truth will not help you! The law deals with facts, not truths! and judges of facts as if they were truths. And oh! my dear Sybil! the lying facts of this case involve you in such a net of circumstantial evidence and direct testimony as renders you liable to arrest—nay, certain to be arrested and imprisoned upon the charge of murder! Oh, my dear, most innocent wife! my free, wild, high-spirited Sybil! even the sense of innocence could not save you from imprisonment, or support you during its degrading tortures! You could not bear—I could not bear for you, such loss of liberty and honor for one hour—even if nothing worse should follow! But, Sybil, worse may, worse must follow! Yes, the very worst! Your only safety is in flight—instant flight! And oh! Heaven! how the time is speeding away!" exclaimed the husband, beside himself with distress.

During the latter part of his speech the wife had started to her feet, and now she stood staring at him, amazed, incredulous, yet firm and brave.

"Rouse yourself to the occasion, Sybil! Oh! for my sake, for Heaven's sake, collect your faculties and prepare for flight," he passionately urged.

"I am innocent, and yet I must fly like the guilty! Lyon, for your sake, and only for yours, I will do it," she answered gravely, and sadly.

"We must not call assistance, nor stop to compliment each other. Pack quickly up what you will most need for yourself, in a travelling bag, and I will do the same for myself," explained Lyon Berners, suiting the action to the word by shoving into his valise some valuable papers, money, razors, a few articles of clothing, etc.

Sybil showed more promptitude and presence of mind than might have been expected of her. She quickly collected her costly jewels and ready money, a change of under clothing, combs, and brushes, and packed them in a small travelling bag.

"We go on horseback," quickly explained Lyon Berners, as he locked his valise.

Swiftly and silently Sybil threw off her masquerading dress, that she had unconsciously worn until now, and dropped it on the floor, where it lay glowing like a smouldering bonfire. She then put on a water-proof riding habit, and announced herself ready.

"Come, then," said Lyon Berners, taking up both bags, and beckoning her to follow him silently.

They slipped down the dark stairs and through the deserted halls, and reached the back door, where, under the shelter of a large hemlock-tree, Captain Pendleton held the horses. It was dark as pitch, and drizzling rain. They could see nothing, they could only know the whereabouts of their "friend in need," and their horses, by hearing Captain Pendleton's voice speaking through the mist in cautious tones, and whispering:

"Lock the door after you, Berners, so as to secure us from intrusion from within. And then stop there under the porch until I come and talk to you."

Mr. Berners did as he was requested to do, and then stood waiting for his friend, who soon came up.

"You have got all you will need on your journey, have you not?" inquired the Captain.

Mr. Berners replied by telling his friend exactly what he had brought.

"All that is very well, but people require to eat and drink once in a while. So I have put some sandwiches, and a bottle of wine from the supper-table, into your saddle-bags. And now, in the hurry, have you decided upon your route?"

"Yes; we shall endeavor to reach the nearest seaport, Norfolk probably, and embark for some foreign country, no matter what, for in no place but in a foreign country can my unhappy wife hope for safety," mournfully replied Lyon Berners.

"Endeavor to reach Norfolk! That will never succeed. You will be sure to be overtaken and brought back before you go a score of miles on that road," declared Captain Pendleton, shaking his head.

"Then, in the name of Heaven, what will do?" demanded Mr. Berners, in a tone of desperation.

"You must find a place of concealment, and then take time to disguise yourself and your wife, so that neither of you can be recognized, before you venture upon the road to Norfolk. You see, Lyon, you are the better lawyer, but I am the better strategist! I graduated among the warpaths and the ambushes of the Redskins on the frontier."

"But where shall I find such a place of concealment?"

"I have thought of that."

"You think of everything."

"Ah! it is easy to show presence of mind in other people's confusion! Almost as easy at it is to bear other people's troubles!" said the Captain, attempting a jest, only to raise his friend's drooping spirits. "But now to the point, for we must be quick. You know the 'Haunted Chapel?'"

"The old ruined church in the cleft on the other side of the Black Mountain?"

"Yes; that is the place. Its deep solitude and total abandonment, with its ghostly reputation, will be sure to secure your safety. Go there; conceal yourselves and your horses as well as you can. In the course of to-morrow, or to-morrow night, I will come to you with such news and such help as I may be able to bring."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you. But what are words? You are a man of deeds. Your presence of mind has saved us both!" said Lyon Berners earnestly.

"And now to horse," said Captain Pendleton, taking Mrs. Berners under his guidance, while Mr. Berners brought on the valise and travelling bag.

Captain Pendleton placed Sybil in her saddle, whispering encouragingly,

"Be strong and hopeful. This necessary flight is a temporary evil, intended to save you from a permanent, and even perhaps a fatal wrong. Be patient, and time shall vindicate you and bring you back."

"But oh! to leave my home, and the home of my fathers! to leave it like a criminal, when I am innocent! to leave it in haste, and not to know if I may ever return," cried Sybil, in a voice of anguish.

"It is a fearful trial. I will not mock you by denying that it is. Yes, it is a terrible ordeal! but one, Mrs. Berners, that you have heroism enough to bear," replied Captain Pendleton, as he bowed over her extended hand and gave her the reins.

Lyon Berners was also mounted. They were ready to start. With a mutual "God bless you," the friends parted.

Lyon and Sybil took the dark road.

Captain Pendleton unlocked the door that had been locked by Mr. Berners, but as he pushed to open it he felt an obstruction, and instantly afterwards heard some one run away.

"A listener," he thought, in dismay as he pursued the fugitive. But he only caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing through the front door and into the darkness without, in which it was lost.

"An eavesdropper!" he exclaimed, in despair. "An eavesdropper! Who now can be assured of her safety? Oh, Sybil! you rejected my hand, and very nearly ruined my life. But this night I would die to save you," he sighed, as he went and joined the gentlemen who were sitting up watching, or rather dozing, in the parlor, while waiting for the physician's or the coroner's arrival.

"Where is Mrs. Berners?" inquired the old Judge, rousing himself up.

"She retired to her chamber about an hour ago," answered Captain Pendleton, telling the truth, but not the whole truth, as you will perceive.

"Hum, ha, yes; well, and where is her husband?"

"He followed her there," answered the Captain, shortly.

"Ha, hum, yes, well. The coroner is long in coming," grumbled the Judge.

"It is some distance to Blackville, sir, and the roads are rough and the night is dark," observed the Captain.

"Well, yes, true," agreed the old man, subsiding into his chair and into his doze.

Captain Pendleton threw himself into a seat, but had not sat long before the parlor door opened, and his sister appeared at it and called to him in a low voice.

He arose, and went to her.

"Come out into the hall here; I want to speak to you, Clement," said Miss Pendleton.

He went out.

Then his sister inquired, in a voice full of anxious entreaty:

"Clement, where is Sybil?"

"She went to her room a little more than an hour ago," answered the brother, giving his sister the same answer that he had given the Judge.

"Clement, I must go to her, and throw my arms around her neck and kiss her. I must not tell her in so many words that I know she is innocent, for to do that would be to affront her almost as much as if I should accuse her of being guilty; for she will rightly enough think that her innocence should not be called into question, but should be taken for granted. So I must not say a word on that subject, but I must find her and embrace her, and make her feel that I know she is innocent. Who is with her?"

"Her husband is with her, Beatrix, and so you can not of course go to her now."

"Oh, but I am so anxious to do so. Look here, Clement. I stood there among the crowd this evening, gazing upon that bleeding and dying woman, until the sight of her ghastly form and face seemed to affect me as the Medusa's head was said to have affected the beholder, and turn me into stone. Clement, I was so petrified that I could not move or speak, even when she appealed to us all to know whether any among us could believe her to be capable of such an act. I could not speak; I could not move. She must have thought that I too condemned her, and I cannot bear to rest under that suspicion of hers. I must go to her now, Clement."

"Indeed you must not, Trix. Wait till she makes her appearance: that will be time enough," answered her brother.

"Oh, this is a horrible night; I wish it were over. I cannot go to bed; nobody can. The ladies are all sitting huddled together in the dressing-room, although the fire has gone out; and the servants are all gathered in the kitchen, too panic-stricken to do anything. Oh, an awful night! I wish it were morning."

"It will soon be daylight now, dear Beatrix. You had better go and rejoin your companions."

And so the brother and sister separated for the night; Beatrix going to sit and shudder with the other ladies in the dressing-room, and Clement returning to the parlor to lounge and doze among the gentlemen.

Only his anxiety for Sybil's safety so much disturbed his repose, that if he did but drop into an instant's slumber he started from it in a vague fright. So the small hours of the morning wore on and brought the dull, drizzly, wintry daylight.

Meanwhile Lyon and Sybil Berners rode on through mist and rain.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE HAUNTED CHAPEL.

"The chapel was a ruin old, That stood so low, in lonely glen. The gothic windows high and dark Were hung with ivy, brier, and yew."

The Haunted Chapel to which Mr. and Mrs. Berners were going was in a dark and lonely gorge on the other side of the mountain across Black River, but near its rise in the Black Torrent. To reach the chapel, they would have to ride three miles up the shore and ford the river, and then pass over the opposite mountain. The road was as difficult and dangerous as it was lonely and unfrequented.

Lyon and Sybil rode on together in silence, bending their heads before the driving mist, and keeping close to the banks of the river until they should reach the fording place.

At length Sybil's anguish broke forth in words.

"Oh! Lyon, is this nightmare? Or is it true that I am so suddenly cast down from my secure place, as to become in one hour a fugitive from my home, a fugitive from justice! Oh! Lyon, speak to me. Break the spell that binds my senses. Wake me up. Wake me up," she wildly exclaimed.

"Dear Sybil, be patient, calm, and firm. This is a terrible calamity. But to meet calamity bravely, is the test of a true high soul. You are compelled to seek safety in flight, to conceal yourself for the present, to avoid a train of unmerited humiliations that even the consciousness of innocence would not enable you to bear. But you have only to be patient, and a few days or weeks must bring the truth to light, and restore you to your home."

"But flight itself looks like guilt; will be taken as additional evidence of guilt," groaned Sybil.

"Not so. Not when it is understood that the overwhelming weight of deceptive circumstantial evidence and deceptive direct testimony had so compromised you as to render flight your only means of salvation. Be brave, my own Sybil. And now, here we are at the ford. Take care of yourself. Let me lead your horse."

"No, no; that would embarrass you, without helping me. Go on before, and I will follow."

Lyon Berners plunged into the stream. Sybil drew up her long skirts and dashed in after him. And they were both soon splashing through the Black River, blacker now than ever with the double darkness of night and mist. A few minutes of brave effort on the part of horses and riders brought them all in safety to the opposite bank, up which they successfully struggled, and found themselves upon firm ground.

"The worst part of the journey is over, dear Sybil. Now I will ride in advance and find the pass, and do you keep close behind me," said Lyon Berners, riding slowly along the foot of the mountain until he came to a dark opening, which he entered, calling Sybil to follow him.

It was one of those fearful passes so frequently to be found in the Allegheny Mountains, and which I have described so often that I may be excused from describing this. They went in, cautiously picking their way through this deeper darkness, and trusting much to the instinct of their mountain-trained steeds to take them safely through. An hour's slow, careful, breathless riding brought them out upon the other side of the mountain.

As they emerged from the dark labyrinth, Lyon Berners pulled up his horse to breathe, and to look about him. Sybil followed his example.

Day was now dawning over the broken and precipitous country.

"Where is that chapel of which you speak? I have heard of it all my life, but I have never seen it; and beyond the fact that it is on this side of the mountain, and not far from the Black Torrent, I know nothing about it," said Sybil.

"It is near the Black Torrent; almost under the bed of the cascade, in fact. And we shall have to turn our horses' heads up stream again to reach it," answered Lyon Berners.

"You know exactly where it is; you have been there, perhaps?" inquired Sybil.

"I have seen it but once in my life. But I can easily find it. It is not a frequented place of resort, dear Sybil. But that makes it all the safer as a place of concealment for you," said Lyon Berners, as he started his horse and rode on.

Sybil followed him closely.

Day was broadening over the mountains, and bringing out a thousand prismatic colors from the autumn foliage of the trees, gemmed now with the rain drops that had fallen during the night.

"It will be quite clear when the sun rises," said Lyon, encouragingly to Sybil, as they went on.

He was right. Sunrise in the mountains is sometimes almost as sudden in its effects as sunrise at sea. The eastern horizon had been ruddy for sometime, but when the sun suddenly came up from behind the mountain, the mist lifted itself, rolled into soft white wreaths and crowned the summits, while all the land below broke out into an effulgence of light, color, and glory.

But people who are flying for life do not pause to enjoy scenery, even of the finest. Lyon and Sybil rode on towards the upper banks of the Black River, hearing at every step the thunder of the Black Torrent, as it leaped from rock to rock in its passionate descent to the valley.

At length they came to a narrow opening in the side of the mountain.

"Here is a path I know," said Mr. Berners, "though its entrance is so concealed by undergrowth as to be almost impossible to discover."

Lyon Berners dismounted, and began to grope for the entrance in a thicket of wild-rose bushes, that were now closely covered with scarlet seed-pods that glowed, and raindrops that sparkled, in the rays of the morning sun.

At length he found the path, and then he returned to his wife, and said:

"We cannot take our horses through the thicket, dear Sybil. You will have to dismount and remain concealed in here until I lead them back across the river, where I will turn them loose. There will be a great advantage gained by that move. Our horses being found on the other side, will mislead our pursuers on a false scent."

While Lyon Berners spoke, he assisted his wife to alight from her saddle, and guided her to the entrance of the thicket.

"This path has not been trodden for a score of years, I can well believe. Just go far enough to be out of sight of any chance spy, and there remain until I return. I shall not be absent over half an hour," said Mr. Berners, as he took leave of Sybil.

She sank wearily down upon a fragment of a rock, and prepared to await his return.

He mounted his own horse, and led hers, and so went his way down the stream to the fording place.

He successfully accomplished the difficult task of taking both horses over the river to the opposite bank, where he turned them loose.

Next with a strong pocket jack-knife he cut a leaping pole from a sapling near, and went still farther up the stream to the rapids, where, by a skilful use of his pole and dexterous leaping from rock to rock, he was enabled to recross the river almost dry-shod.

He rejoined Sybil, whom he found just where he had left her.

She was sitting on a piece of rock, with her head bowed upon her hands.

"Have I been gone long? Were you anxious or lonely, dearest?" he inquired, as he gave her his hand to assist her in rising.

"Oh, no! I take no note of time! But oh! Lyon, when shall I wake?" she exclaimed in wild despair.

"What is it you say, dear Sybil?" he gently asked.

"When shall I wake—wake from this ghastly nightmare, in which I seem to myself to be a fugitive from justice! an exile from my home! a houseless, hunted stranger in the land! It is a nightmare! It can not be real, you know! Oh, that I could wake!"

"Dear Sybil, collect your faculties. Do not let despair drive you to distraction. Be mistress of yourself in this trying situation," said Lyon Berners, gravely.

"But oh, Heaven! the crushing weight and stunning suddenness of this blow! It is like death! like perdition!" exclaimed Sybil, pressing her hands to her head.

Lyon Berners could only gaze on her with infinite compassion, expressed in every lineament of his eloquent countenance.

She observed this, and quickly, with a great effort, from a strong resolution, throwing her hands apart like one who disperses a cloud, and casts off a weight, she said:

"It is over! I will not be nervous or hysterical again. I have brought trouble on you as well as on myself, dear Lyon; but I will show you that I can bear it. I will look this calamity firmly in the face, and come what may, I will not drag you down by sinking under it."

And so saying, she gave him her hand, and arose and followed him as he pushed on before, breaking down or bearing aside the branches that overhung and obstructed the path.

Half an hour of this difficult and tedious travelling brought them down into a deep dark dell, in the midst of which stood the "Haunted Chapel."

It was an old colonial church, a monument of the earliest settlement in the valley. It was now a wild and beautiful ruin, with its surroundings all glowing with color and sparkling with light. In itself it was a small Gothic edifice, built of the dark iron-grey rock dug from the mountain quarries. Its walls, window-frames, and roof were all still standing, and were almost entirely covered by creepers, among which the wild rose vine, now full of scarlet berries, was conspicuous.

A broken stonewall overgrown with brambles enclosed the old church-yard, where a few fallen and mouldering gravestones, half sunk among the dead leaves, still remained.

All around the church, on the bottom of the dell, and up the sides of the steeps, were thickly clustered forest-trees, now glowing refulgent in their gorgeous autumn livery of crimson and gold, scarlet and purple.

A little rill, an offspring of the Black Torrent, tumbled down the side of the mountain behind the church, and ran frolicking irreverently through the old graveyard. The great cascade was out of sight, though very near for its thunder filled the air.

"See," said Sybil, pointing to the little singing rill; "Nature is unsympathetic. She can laugh and frolic over the dead, and, besides, the suffering."

"It would seem, then, that Nature is wiser as well as gladder than we are; since she, who is transitory, rejoices while we, who are immortal, pine," answered Lyon Berners, pleased that any thought should win her from the contemplation of her misfortune.

He then led the way into the old ruined church through the door frames, from which the doors had long been lost. The stone floor, and the stone altar still remained; all else within the building was gone.

Lyon Berners looked all around, up and down the interior, from the arched ceiling to the side-walls with their window spaces and the flagstone floor with its mouldy seams. The wild creeping vines nearly filled the window spaces, and shaded the interior more beautifully than carved shutters, velvet curtains, or even stained glass could have done. The flagstone floor was strewn with fallen leaves that had drifted in. Up and down, in every nook and corner of the roof and windows, last year's empty birds nests perched. And here and there along the walls, the humble "mason's" little clay house stuck.

But there seemed no resting place for the weary travellers, until Sybil, with a serious smile, went up to the altar and sank upon the lowest step, and beckoned Lyon to join her, saying:

"At the foot of the altar, dear Lyon, there was sanctuary in the olden times. We seem to realize the idea now."

"You are cold. Your clothes are all damp. Stop! I must try to raise a fire. But you, in the meantime, must walk briskly up and down, to keep from being chilled to death," answered Lyon Berners very practically, as he proceeded to gather dry leaves and twigs that had drifted into the interior of the old church.

He piled them up in the centre of the floor, just under the break in the roof, and then he went out and gathered sticks and brushwood, and built up a little mound. Lastly he took a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light, and kindled the fire.

The dried leaves and twigs crackled and blazed, and the smoke ascended in a straight column to the hole in the roof through which it escaped.

"Come, dear Sybil, and walk around the fire until your clothes are dry, and then sit down by it. This fire, with its smoke ascending and escaping through that aperture, is just such a fire as our forefathers in the old, old times enjoyed, as the best thing of the kind they knew anything about. Kings had no better," said Lyon Berners, cheerfully.

Sybil approached the fire, but instead of walking around it, she sat down on the flagstones before it. She looked very weary, thoroughly prostrated in body, soul, and spirit.

"What are we waiting for, in this horrible pause?" she inquired at length.

"We are waiting for Pendleton. He is to bring us news, as soon as he can slip away and steal to us without fear of detection," answered Lyon Berners.

"Oh, Heaven! what words have crept into our conversation about ourselves and friends too! 'Steal,' 'fear,' 'detection!' Oh, Lyon!—But there, I will say no more. I will not revert to the horror and degradation of this position again, if I can help it," groaned Sybil.

"My wife, you are very faint. Try to take some nourishment," urged Lyon, as he began to open the small parcel of refreshments thoughtfully provided by Captain Pendleton.

"No, no, I cannot swallow a morsel. My throat is parched and constricted," she answered.

"If I only had a little coffee for you," said Lyon.

"If we only had liberty to go home again," sighed Sybil, "then we should have all things. But there; indeed I will not backslide into weak complaints again," she added, compunctuously.

"Modify your grief, dear Sybil, but do not attempt entirely to suppress it. Nature is not to be so restrained," said Lyon Berners, kindly.

There was silence between them for a little while, during which Sybil still sat down upon the flagstones, with her elbows resting on her knees, and her head bowed upon the palms of her hands; and Lyon stood up near her with an attitude and expression of grave and sad reflection and self-control.

At length Sybil spoke:

"Oh, Lyon! who could have murdered that poor woman, and brought us into such a horrible position?"

"My theory of the tragedy is this, dear Sybil: that some robber, during the confusion of the fancy ball, found an opportunity of entering and concealing himself in Mrs. Blondelle's room; that his first purpose might have been simple robbery, but that, being discovered by Mrs. Blondelle, and being alarmed lest her shrieks should bring the house upon him and occasion his capture, he impulsively sought to stop her cries by death; and then that, hearing your swift approach down the stairs leading into her room, he made his escape through the window."

"But then the windows were all found, as they had been left, fastened," objected Sybil.

"But, dearest, you must remember that these windows, having spring bolts, may be fastened by being pushed to from the outside. It is quite possible for a robber, escaping through them, to close them in this manner to conceal his flight."

"That must have been the case in this instance. Everybody must see now that that was the manner in which the miscreant escaped. Oh, Lyon! I think we were wrong to have left home."

"No, dear Sybil, we were not. Our only hope is in the discovery of the real murderer, and that may be a work of time; meanwhile we wish to be free, even at the price of being called fugitives from justice."

"Lyon, that poor child! If we ever go home again, we must adopt and educate him."

"We will do so, Sybil."

"For, oh! Lyon, although I am entirely innocent of that most heinous crime, and entirely incapable of it, yet, when I remember how my rage burned against that poor woman only an hour before her death, I feel—I feel as if I were half guilty of it! as if—Heaven pardon me!—I might, in some moment of madness, have been wholly guilty of it! Lyon, I shudder at myself!" cried Sybil, growing very pale.

"You should thank Heaven that you have been saved from such mortal sin, dear wife, and also pray Heaven always to save you from your own fierce passions," said Mr. Berners, very gravely.

"I have breathed that thanksgiving and that prayer with every breath I have drawn. And I will continue to do so. But, oh! Lyon, all my passions, all my sufferings grew out of my great love for you."

"I can well believe it, dear wife. And I myself have not been free from blame; though in reality your jealousy was very causeless, Sybil."

"I know that now," said Sybil, sadly.

"And now, dearest, I would like to make 'a clean breast of it,' as the sinners say, and tell you all—the whole 'head and front of my offending' with that poor dead woman," said Mr. Berners, seating himself on the floor beside his wife.

Sybil did not repel his offered confidence, for though her jealousy had died a violent death, she was still very much interested in hearing his confession.

Then Lyon Berners told her everything, up to the very last moment when she had surprised them in the first and last kiss that had ever passed between them.

"But in all, and through all, my heart, dear wife, was loyal in its love to you," he concluded.

"I know that, dearest Lyon—I know that well," replied Sybil.

And with that tenderness towards the faults of the dead, which all magnanimous natures share, she forbore to say, or even to think, how utterly unprincipled had been the course of Rosa Blondelle from the first to the last of their acquaintance with that vain and frivolous coquette.

Sybil was now almost sinking with weariness. Lyon perceived her condition, and said:

"Remain here, dear Sybil, while I go and try to collect some boughs and leaves to make you a couch. The sun must have dried up the moisture by this time."

And he went out and soon returned with his arms full of boughs, which he spread upon the flagstones. Then he took off his own overcoat and covered them with it.

"Now, dear Sybil," he said, "if you will divest yourself of your long riding skirt, you may turn that into a blanket to cover with, and so sleep quite comfortably."

With a grave smile Sybil followed his advice, and then she laid herself down on the rude couch he had spread for her. No sooner had her head touched it, than she sank into that deep sleep of prostration which is more like a swoon than a slumber.

Lyon Berners covered her carefully with the long riding skirt, and stood watching her for some minutes. But she neither spoke nor stirred; indeed, she scarcely breathed.

Then, after still more carefully tucking the covering around her, he left her, and walked out to explore the surroundings of the chapel.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SOLITUDE IS INVADED.

Oh, might we here In solitude live savage, in some glade Obscured, where highest woods impenetrable To star, or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad And brown as evening; cover us, ye pines Ye cedars with innumerable boughs Hide us where we may ne'er be seen again.—BYRON.

Nothing could be more lonely and desolate than this place. It was abandoned to Nature and Nature's wild children. Of the birds that perched so near his hand; of the squirrels that peeped at him from their holes under the gravestones, he might have said with Alexander Selkirk on Juan Fernandez,

"Their tameness is shocking to me."

There was a great consolation to be derived from these circumstances, however; for they proved how completely deserted by human beings, and how perfectly safe for the refugees, was this old "Haunted Chapel."

Too deeply troubled in mind to take any repose of body; Lyon Berners continued to ramble about among the gravestones, which were now so worn with age that no vestige of their original inscriptions remained to gratify the curiosity of a chance inspector.

Above him was the glorious autumn sky, now hazy with the golden mist of Indian summer. Around him lay a vast wilderness of hill and dell covered with luxuriant forests, now gorgeous with the glowing autumn colors of their foliage.

But his thoughts were not with this magnificent landscape. They wandered to the past days of peace and joy before the coming of the coquette had "made confusion" with the wedded pair. They wandered to the future, trying to penetrate the gloom and horror of its shadows. They flew to Black Hall, picturing the people, prevising the possibilities there.

How he longed for, yet dreaded the arrival of Captain Pendleton! Would there be danger in his coming through the open daylight? What news would he bring?

The verdict of the coroners jury? Against whom must this verdict be given? Lyon Berners shuddered away from answering this question. But it was also possible that before this the murderer might have been discovered and arrested. Should this surmise prove to be a fact, oh, what relief from anguish, what a happy return home for Sybil! If not—if the verdict should be rendered against her,—nothing but flight and exile remained to them.

While Lyon Berners wandered up and down like a restless ghost among the gravestones, his attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of a crackling tread breaking through the bushes. He turned quickly, expecting to see Captain Pendleton, but he saw his own servant instead.

"Joe!" he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise.

"Marser!" responded the man, in a voice of grief.

"You come from Captain Pendleton? What message does he send? How is it at the house? Has the coroner come? And oh! has any clue been found to the murderer?" anxiously inquired Mr. Berners.

"No, marser, no clue an't been found to no murderer. But the house up there is full of crowners and constables, as if it was the county court house, and Cappin Pendulum managing everything."

"He sent you to me?"

"No, marser, nor likewise knowed I come."

"Joe! who has sent you here?" inquired Mr. Berners.

"No one hasn't, marser," answered Joe, dashing the tears from his eyes, and then proceeding to unstrap a large hamper that he carried upon his shoulders.

"No one! Then how came you here?" demanded Mr. Berners, uneasily.

Now, instead of answering his master's question, Joe sat down upon his hamper, and wept aloud.

"What is the matter with you?" inquired Mr. Berners.

"You axed me how I comed here," sobbed Joe, "just as if I could keep away when she and you was here in trouble, and a-wanting some one to look arter you."

"But how did you know we were here?" anxiously questioned Mr. Berners.

"I wa'n't a listening at key-holes, nor likewise a-eaves-dropping, which I considers beneath a gentleman to do; but I was a-looking to the back shutters, to see as they was all safe arter the fright we got, and I hearn somebody a-talking, which I was sure was more bugglers; so I made free to wait and hear what they said."

"It was Captain Pendleton and myself, I suppose," said Mr. Berners, much annoyed.

"Jes so, sir; it wer Capping Pendulum and yourself, which it hurt me to the heart as you should have trusted into Capping Pendulum and not into me—a old and valleyed servant of the family."

"And so, Joe, you overheard the whole matter?"

"Which I did, sir, and shocked I was to think as any false charges should cause my dear young missus to run away from home in the night-time, like a fusible slave. And hurt I was to think you didn't trust into me instead of into he."

"Well, Joe, it appears to me that you were resolved to take our trust, if we did not give it to you. What brought you here this morning?"

"Coffee, sir," gravely answered Joe, getting up off the hamper and beginning to untie its fastenings.

"What?" demanded Mr. Berners, gathering his brows into a frown.

"COFFEE!" reiterated Joe, as he took from the hamper a small silver coffee-pot, a pair of cups and saucers, spoons, plates, and knives and forks, a bottle of cream, and several small packets containing all that was needful for breakfast.

"Joe! this was very kind and thoughtful of you; but was it quite safe for you to come here with a hamper on your back in open day?" inquired Mr. Berners.

"Lord bless you, sir! safe as safe! I took by-paths, and didn't see a creetur, not one! Why, lord, sir, you had better a-trusted into me from the beginning, than into Capping Pendulum. Bress your soul, marser, there an't that white man going, nor yet that red injun, that can aiqual a colored gentleman into hiding and seeking!"

"I can well believe that."

"Why, marser!—but you don't 'member that time I got mad long o' old Marse Bertram Berners, 'bout blaming of me for the sorrell horse falling lame; and I run away?"

"No."

"Well, I was gone three months, and not five miles from home all that time! And all the constables looking arter me for law and order; and all the poor white trash, hunting of me for the reward; and not one of 'em all ever struck upon my trail, and me so nigh home all the while!"

"Well, but you were found at last," suggested Mr. Berners.

"Who, me? No, sir! And I don't think as I should a-been found yet; 'cause it was a funny kind of life, that run-a-way life, a dodging of the man-hunters; but you see, marser, I sort o' pined arter the child—meaning Miss Sybil, who was then about four years old. And, moreover, it was fotch to me by a secret friend o' mine, as the child was likewise a pining arter me. So I up and went straight home, and walked right up before old marse, and took off my hat and told him as how I was willin' to forgive and forget, and let by-gones be by-gones like a Christian gentleman, if he would do the same."

"And of course your master at once accepted such magnanimous terms."

"Who, he? Why, Marse Lyon! he looked jes as if he'd a-knocked me down! Only, you see, the child—meaning Miss Sybil—was a sitting on his knee, which, soon as ever she saw me, she ran to me, and clasped me round one leg, and tried to climb up in my arms; which I took her up at once; and old marster, he couldn't knock me down then, if it had been to have saved his life."

"So peace was ratified."

"Yes, Marse Lyon! which I telled you all this here nonsense jes to let you know how good I was at hiding and seeking. And, Marse! the horses come home all right."

"They did! I am glad of that."

"This was the way of it being all right, sir! You see I knowed, when I heard you were going to ride to this old church, as you couldn't get the horses through this thicket, but would have to turn them loose, to find their way home. And I knowed how if any other eyes 'cept mine saw them, it would set people to axing questions. So I goes out to the road, and watches till I sees 'em coming; when I takes charge of 'em, and gets 'em into the stable quiet, and no one the wiser."

"Well done, Joe! But tell me, my good man, are we missed yet? Has any one inquired for us?"

"Plenty has axed arter you both, Marse! But as no one but me and Capping Pendulum knowed where you was gone, and as I locked your door, and took the key, most of the folks still think as how Miss Sybil has gone to bed, overcome by the ewents of the night, and as how you is a watching by her, and a taking care of her."

"That also is well."

"But, Marse, how is Miss Sybil, and where is she?" inquired the faithful servant, looking about himself.

"She is very much prostrated by fatigue and excitement, and is now sleeping in the church."

"Thanks be to the Divine Marster as she can sleep," said Joe, reverently.

"And now," he continued, as he replaced it on his head, "I will kindle a fire and make the coffee, and may be she may wake up by the time it is ready."

"Kindle a fire out here, Joe! Will not the smoke be seen, and lead to our discovery?" inquired Lyon Berners, glancing at the slender column of smoke from the fire in the church, that he himself had kindled, and now for the first time struck with the sense of the danger of discovery to which it might have exposed Sybil.

"Lord, Marse!" replied Joe, showing his teeth, "we are too far off from any human being for any eye to see our smoke. And even if it wasn't so, bless you, there are so many mists rising from the valley this morning, that one smoke more or less wouldn't be noticed."

"That is true," admitted Mr. Berners.

Meanwhile Joe busied himself with lighting a fire. When it was burning freely, he took the kettle and filled it from the little stream that flowed through the church-yard.

"Now, Marse Lyon, in about ten minutes I will set you down to as good a breakfast, almost, as you could have got at home," said Joe, as he raised three cross-sticks over the fire, and hung the kettle over the blaze, gipsy fashion.

While Joe was at work, Mr. Berners went into the church to look after Sybil.

She was still sleeping the heavy sleep of utter mental and bodily prostration. For a few minutes he stood contemplating her with an expression of countenance full of love and pity, and then after adjusting the covering over her, and collecting together the brands of the expiring fire to light up again, he left the church.

On going outside, he found that Joe had spread a cloth and arranged a rude sort of picnic breakfast upon the ground.

"The coffee is ready, Marse Lyon; but how about the Missis?" inquired the man, as he stirred down the grounds from the top of the pot.

"She is still sleeping, and must not be disturbed," answered Mr. Berners.

"Well, Marse Lyon, I reckon as how you can relish a cup of coffee as well as she; so please to let me wait on you, sir."

Mr. Berners thanked Joe, and threw himself down upon the ground, and made such a breakfast as a hungry man can make, even under the most deplorable circumstances.

"Now you know, sir, when the Missus wakes up, be it longer or shorter, I can make fresh coffee for her in ten minutes," said Joe, cheerfully.

"But you cannot stay here very long. You'll be missed from the house," objected Mr. Berners.

"Please, sir, I have so well provided for all that, that I can stay till night. Bless you, sir, I told my fellow-servants as I was going to take some corn to the mill to be ground, and was agoin' to wait all day to fetch it home; and so I really did take the corn, and told the miller I should come arter it this evening, and so I shall, and take it home all right, accordin' to my word."