Hatchie had been able, by severe exertion, to keep within hearing of the splashing oars. The current fortunately carried him near the wood-yard, and, aided by the sounds he heard at the cabin, and by the boat which he saw, he concluded the party had landed there. Letting go the door, a few vigorous strokes brought him to the shore. Approaching the cabin, he satisfied himself that his mistress had taken shelter there. Concealing himself in the woods, he awaited with much anxiety the next movement of the attorney. In the morning he heard the noise at the cabin, and had been the means of saving his mistress from a calamity far more dreadful than death itself.

On the evening of the day of the explosion, an elderly gentleman sat in a private apartment of one of the principal hotels in Vicksburg, attentively reading an "Extra," in which the particulars of the disaster were detailed. He read, with little apparent interest, the account, until he came to the names of "Saved, Killed, Wounded and Missing." An expression of the deepest anxiety settled upon his countenance. He finished reading the list of survivors, and a transient feeling of satisfaction was visible on his face. When in the list of the "missing" he read the name of "Miss Dumont, Antoine De Guy and Henry Carroll," a smile as of glutted revenge and malignant hatred dispelled the cloud of anxiety which had before brooded over his features. Throwing down the sheet, he drank off a glass of brandy, which had been waiting his pleasure on the table. The potion was not insignificant in quantity or strength, and the wry face he made did not add to the amiability of his expression. As the dose permeated his brain, and produced that agreeable lightness which is the first phase of intoxication, he rubbed his hands with childish delight, and half muttered an expression of pleasure.

Suddenly his countenance assumed its former lowering aspect, his brows knit, and his lips compressed.

"Missing!" muttered he. "What the devil does missing mean? What can it mean but dead, defunct, gone to a better world, as the canting hypocrites say?"

But we will not attempt to record the muttered soliloquy of the gentleman,—Jaspar Dumont, who had reached Vicksburg that day, from the wood-yard where we left him. It was too profane, too sacrilegious, to stain our page.

Grasping the bell-rope with a sudden energy, as though a new thought had struck him, he gave it a violent pull, which brought to his presence a black waiter.

"Has the Dragon returned?" asked Jaspar.

"Yes, sar, jus got in, Massa."

"Is there any person in the house who went up in her?"

"Yes, massa, one gemman in de office."

"Who is he?"

"Massa—massa—" and the darkey scratched his head, to stimulate his memory, which act instantly brought the name to his mind.

"Massa Lousey."

"Mister what, you black scoundrel!"

"Yes, sar,—Massa Lousey; dat's de name."

"Lousey?" repeated Jaspar.

"Stop bit," said the waiter, a new idea penetrating his cranium. "Dar Lousey, dat's de name, for sartin."

"Dalhousie," responded Jaspar. "Give my compliments to Mr. Dalhousie, and ask him to oblige me with a few moments' conversation in this room."

"Yes, sar;" and the waiter retired, muttering, "Dar Lousey."

The Dragon was a small steamer, which had been sent, on the intelligence of a "blow up," to obtain the particulars for the press, and render assistance to the survivors. Dalhousie was a transient visitor at the hotel, and, with many others, had gone in the Dragon to gratify his curiosity.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir," said Jaspar, as the gentleman entered the apartment; "but I am much interested in the fate of several persons who were passengers on board the Chalmetta."

"No trouble, Mr. Dumont, I am extremely happy to serve you," replied Dalhousie, whose obsequious manners were ample evidence of his sincerity.

"My niece was on board of her," continued Jaspar, "and I see her name in the list of missing."

"Your niece!" replied Dalhousie, emphasizing the latter word. He had a few days before come from New Orleans, and had there heard of the startling developments in the Dumont family.

"No matter," returned Jaspar, sharply; "she went by the name of Dumont. Did you find any bodies?"

"We picked up the remains of six men and two females."

"Can you describe the females? How were they dressed?" asked Jaspar, in an excited manner.

"One was dressed in black. The other had on a common calico."

"But the one in black,—describe her,—her hair,—was she tall or short?" interrupted Jaspar, hurriedly.

"Her hair was in curls. She was apparently about twenty-six or seven, and rather short in stature."

"Curls," muttered Jaspar; "she has not worn curls since the colonel died. She may have put them on again to please that infernal Captain Carroll. Twenty-six years old, you think?"

"She may have been younger. Her features were terribly mangled," and Mr. Dalhousie cast a penetrating glance at Jaspar, as though he would read out the beatings of his black heart.

Jaspar considered again the description, and, though it did not correspond to his niece's, his anxiety had contributed to warp his judgment. He was very willing to believe the Chalmetta's fatal disaster had forever removed the only obstacle to the gratification of his ambition, and the only source of future insecurity. He paced the room, muttering, in his abstraction, sundry broken phrases.

Dalhousie watched him, and endeavored to obtain the purport of his disjointed soliloquy. A stranger, without some strong motive, could scarcely have had so much interest in him as he appeared to have.

"Had she any jewels—ornaments of any kind?" asked Dalhousie, after the silence had grown disagreeable to him.

"She had," replied Jaspar, stopping suddenly in his perambulation of the room, and speaking with an eagerness which betrayed his anxiety to obtain more evidence. "Were any found upon her person?"

"You are a man of honor, Mr. Dumont, and, if I disclose to you a thoughtless indiscretion of my own, you will not, of course, expose me?" said Dalhousie, with, hesitation, and apparent want of confidence.

"Of course not," replied Jaspar, impatiently. "What has this to do with the matter?"

"Did your niece wear a ring?"

"Yes, a mourning ring."

"Do you know the ring? Could you identify it?"

"Certainly," replied Jaspar, who remembered having seen an ornament of this description on the finger of Emily.

"Will you describe it to me, if you please?"

But Jaspar had reckoned without his host. The details of a piece of jewelry were matters entirely foreign to his taste. However, he succeeded in giving a description, which, from its general terms, might have applied to one mourning ring as well as another.

"Is this the one?" asked Dalhousie, with an anxiety which he could scarcely conceal, as he produced a ring.

"That is it," replied Jaspar, confidently; and the jewel did bear some resemblance to that worn by Emily.

"But where did you obtain this?"

"I must insist on the most inviolable secrecy."

"Certainly, certainly," said Jaspar, eagerly.

"I will disclose the particulars only on the condition that you pledge yourself never to reveal my agency in the matter; for it would compromise my character."

"Very well. I pledge you my honor," replied Jaspar, impatiently. "You took it from the corpse of the lady in black."

"I did, and you must be aware that such an act would subject me to inconvenience, if known."

"Don't be alarmed; your secret is safe."

"But are you sure this is the ring worn by your niece?"

"It looks like it;" but Jaspar was perplexed with a doubt. He bethought himself that it was only in a casual glance he had observed Emily's ring. He had never examined it, and, after all, this might not be the one. There was certainly nothing strange in any lady dressed in black wearing a mourning ring. Again he turned the ring over and over, and scrutinized it closely. His finger touched a spring, and the plate flew up, disclosing a small lock of gray hair, twined around the single letter D.

"I will swear to it now," exclaimed Jaspar, in a tone which betrayed the malicious joy he felt at the discovery. He was perfectly satisfied now of the identity of the ring. It never occurred to him that D stood for any other name than Dumont.

"This appears to be decisive evidence," replied Dalhousie. "Your niece, then, must be the person brought down by the Dragon."

"Without doubt."

"As this matter, then, is settled to your satisfaction—"

"Sir!" exclaimed Jaspar.

"I beg your pardon," resumed Dalhousie, with a supercilious air; "I only meant that your mind was satisfied—relieved from a painful anxiety."

"A very painful anxiety," replied Jaspar.

"I understand, sir, you own a large plantation."

"Well."

"Perhaps you need an overseer?"

Jaspar acknowledged that he did need an overseer.

"I should be happy to make an engagement with you," said the other, in complaisant tones.

"I don't think you would suit me. You are too genteel, by half," returned Jaspar, bluntly.

"I have been in a better position, it is true. I was born in France, but I understand the business."

"Did you ever manage a gang of niggers?"

After a little hesitation, Dalhousie replied that he had.

"We will talk of it some other time," said Jaspar, satisfied, from the air and manner of the other, that his statement was false.

Dalhousie put on his hat, and, taking the mourning ring from the table, was about to enfold it in a bit of paper.

"What are you about, sir?" exclaimed Jaspar, as he witnessed the act.

"The ring is my property, is it not?" said Dalhousie.

"Put it down, or, by heavens, I will expose your rascality in taking it!"

"Do not be hasty, sir. I have not studied your looks, the last hour, without profiting by them."

"What do you mean by that?" said Jaspar, a little startled.

"I mean that the death of your niece does not seem to be received with that degree of sorrow which an uncle would naturally feel."

"Fool! she was not my niece!"

"Why are you so anxious to establish her decease?"

"Was I anxious?" said Jaspar, not knowing how far he might have betrayed himself.

"Quite enough so to convince even the most indifferent observer that you were extremely rejoiced at the event," replied Dalhousie, willing to make out a strong case.

Jaspar did not reply, and it was plain Dalhousie's remarks had had their effect.

"But, Mr. Dumont, I flatter myself I am a man of discretion. As you were saying, you need an overseer," said Dalhousie, with a glance at Jaspar, which conveyed more meaning than his words.

The glance was irresistible, and Jaspar engaged him at a liberal salary, as well as his wife, who was to be the housekeeper at Bellevue. Dalhousie was a needy man. His fortunes were on the descending scale. Born in France, he had emigrated to this country, with the chimerical hope of speedily making a fortune. He could not build up the coveted temple stone by stone, but wished it to rise like a fairy castle. With such views, he had wandered about the country with his wife (whom he had married since his arrival), in search of the philosopher's stone. He had several times engaged in subordinate capacities, but his impatient hopes would not brook the distance between him and the goal. He had been to New Orleans, but the city was almost deserted. On his arrival at Vicksburg, Jaspar had been pointed out to him as a person who could probably favor his wishes, and he had obtained an introduction to him.

Jaspar's thoughts and feelings he read. He discovered the nature of the relations between the uncle and niece,—which required but little sagacity, under the circumstances. Determined to profit by the knowledge he had obtained, his first step was to satisfy Jaspar of the death of Emily, of whom, in reality, he knew nothing. The initial letter of his wife's name in the ring had suggested the means, and he had convinced Jaspar as related. How Dalhousie's sense of moral rectitude would allow him to use the deception, we will not say; but he seemed to tolerate the idea that the great purpose he had in view would justify any little peccadilloes he might commit in obtaining it.

He had gained his end, and taken the first step in the great road to fortune; and he doubted not his future relations with Jaspar would suggest a second.

The body of the deceased lady was claimed by Dalhousie, in behalf of Jaspar, and interred in Vicksburg.

In company with the new overseer and his wife, Jaspar returned the next day to Bellevue.



CHAPTER XVII.

"Say quick! quoth he; I bid thee say, What manner of man art thou?

"Forthwith, this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free." ANCIENT MARINER.

The morning advanced, and Henry Carroll, under the influence of the powerful opiate, still slept. By his side sat the misanthropic physician, who seemed to have learned a lesson of the dealing of the Creator with the creature such as he had never before acquired. He had rescued a fellow-creature from sure death, and the act seemed a part of the great duties of life which he had so long neglected. He reflected upon the numerous opportunities of doing good to his fellow-men from which his hermit-life debarred him. Again he thought of his daughter. Her image rose before him in the darkened chamber of the sick man, and seemed to reproach him for his want of faithfulness to her. The incident and reflections of the previous night had strangely influenced his mind, and changed the whole current of his impulses and hopes. The solitude of his lonely island no longer seemed desirable. The world, with all its vanities and vexations, was the true sphere of life.

The arrival of Jim now summoned him to the relief of Mrs. Swinger. Calling in the old negro, he gave him some directions in case the patient should awake, and, taking his case of surgical instruments, he proceeded to the landing. Unmooring the sail-boat, he took the two messengers on board, with their boat in tow. The wind was still fresh, and the yacht, with all her sails spread, bore the doctor rapidly on his errand of mercy. A strange impulse seemed to animate him,—an impulse of genuine, heart-felt sympathy towards the whole human family,—a feeling to which he had before been a stranger. His profession seemed to him now a boon of mercy to the suffering, and he saw how poorly he had performed his mission to the world. He felt a pleasure he had never before experienced, in being able to relieve the distressed, to heal the wounded heart, as well as the bruised limb.

Under the skilful pilotage of Dr. Vaudelier the more rapid currents were avoided, the boat pressed to her utmost speed; and in a short time the party landed at the wood-yard of Jerry Swinger.

During the absence of the messengers Emily, by the most assiduous attentions, had succeeded in restoring the wounded woman to a state of partial consciousness. The arrival of the doctor increased her hopes of a speedy restoration. The rough woodman, who had patiently watched Emily as she labored over his beloved partner, was melted into tears of joy when he heard her faintly articulate his name.

After a thorough examination of the wound, the doctor announced the gratifying intelligence that the woman was not dangerously wounded. The severe operation of extracting the ball was performed, and the patient left to the quiet her situation demanded.

On the passage from Cottage Island Hatchie had related the particulars of the affray, so that on his arrival Dr. Vaudelier was in possession of all the facts.

"You have had a severe fight here, madam," said he to Emily, who had followed him out to inquire more particularly into the situation of her hostess.

"We have, indeed; but I trust no lives will be lost," replied Emily.

"No; the woman will do very well. The wound is a severe one, but not dangerous. Her strong constitution will resist all fatal consequences."

"I trust it may, for this has been a day of disaster, without the loss of more life."

"You were a passenger in the Chalmetta?"

"I was."

"Then you have had a narrow escape."

"But a more narrow one since the explosion. Thank Heaven, I have been preserved from both calamities!"

"Had you no friends on board?"

"I had—one friend;" and she hesitated. "I fear he has perished."

"Hope for the best!" replied the doctor, kindly.

The blush, and then the change to the paleness of death, as Emily thought of Henry, first as the lover, and then as a mangled corpse had not escaped the notice of Dr. Vaudelier. He read in her varying color the relation they had sustained to each other.

"I have no alternative but hope," said Emily; "but it seems like hoping against the certainty of evil."

"I saved the life of a gentleman this morning who must shortly have perished without aid. He, too, had lost a dear friend."

"Indeed!" said Emily, with interest.

"Yes; but he was much injured, and will require the most diligent care."

"I trust your merciful endeavors will be crowned with success. Do you know the gentleman?"

"I do not. He has not yet been able to converse much. He was dressed in the uniform of an officer."

"An officer! Perhaps it is he!" exclaimed Emily.

Dr. Vaudelier was much interested in the adventure, and the pale, anxious features of Emily excited his sympathy for her.

"As I dressed his wounds," said he, "I noticed the initials upon his linen. Perhaps these may afford some clue."

"What were they?" exclaimed Emily, scarcely able to articulate, in the intensity of her feelings.

"H.C."

"It is he! It is he! And you say he is wounded?"

"I am sorry to say he is."

"Can I go to him?" said Emily, grasping the doctor's arm.

"I fear your presence will excite him. Are you a relative?"

"No, not a relative," replied Emily, blushing; "but I know he would like to see me."

"I do not doubt it," said the doctor, with a smile,—a luxury in which he rarely indulged. "I am afraid your presence will agitate him."

"Let me watch over him while he sleeps. He need not know I am near."

"Rather difficult to manage, but you shall see him. Will you return with me?"

"Thank you, I will. But poor Mrs. Swinger!" and a shade of anxiety crossed her features, as she thought of leaving her kind hostess in affliction.

"Her husband is a good nurse, and understands her case better than you do. If I mistake not, your services will be full as acceptable at my cottage."

Dr. Vaudelier tried to smile at this sally; but the effort was too much for him, and he sank under it.

Emily, though sorry to leave her protectress, was drawn by the irresistible magnetism of affection to Cottage Island. She compromised between the opposing demands of duty by promising herself that she would again visit the wood-yard.

She embarked with Dr. Vaudelier, and they were soon gliding down the mighty river on their way to Cottage Island. Emily had wished Hatchie to accompany her, as much for his safety as for her own; but the faithful fellow desired to stay at the wood-yard. They had before had an interview in relation to the will. Uncle Nathan, who had been made the custodian of it, had not been seen or heard from, and her case again seemed to be desperate. Hatchie assured her of his safety, and of his good faith. He had left him in the hold, and, with common prudence, the worthy farmer might have made his escape unharmed. Emily, who now regarded her devoted servant in the light of a guardian angel, had entire confidence in his reasoning and conclusions. Of Hatchie's motive in remaining at the wood-yard she had no conception. If she had had, she would probably have insisted on his attendance.

After the departure of Dr. Vaudelier and Emily, Hatchie went to the cabin, and took therefrom a carpet-bag belonging to Maxwell,—an article which, even in the hurry of his exit from the steamer, he had not omitted to take. With this in his hand, he proceeded to the out-building, to satisfy himself of the security of his prisoners; but Vernon had fled,—the wooden door of the shed had not been proof against his art. Hatchie was not disconcerted by this incident. Vernon, he was aware, was only a subordinate, who did his evil deeds for hire, and against him he bore no ill will. But it immediately occurred to him that the ruffian might have liberated Maxwell, and this would have utterly deranged his present plans. Taking from the shed a long rope, he proceeded to the other side of the cabin, where he had secured the attorney to the tree. To his great satisfaction he found the prisoner secure. Vernon did not see him, or was too intent on his own safety to bestow a thought upon his late employer.

Hatchie reached the scene of Maxwell's humiliation. Coolly seating himself on a log near the discomfited lawyer, and regarding him with a look of contempt, he proceeded to examine the fastenings of the carpet-bag. Maxwell spoke not; his pride was still "above par," and he returned Hatchie's contemptuous glances with a scowl of scorn and hatred. The attorney was in sore tribulation at the unexpected turn affairs had taken, and the future did not present a very encouraging aspect. Of the mulatto'a present intentions he could gain no idea. The long rope he had brought with him looked ominous, and a shudder passed through his frame as he considered the uses to which it might be applied. As he regarded the cool proceedings of his jailer, the worst anticipations crowded upon him. The mulatto looked like a demon of the inquisition to his guilty soul. But, tortured as he was by the most terrible forebodings, he still preserved his dignified scowl, and watched the operations of Hatchie with apparent coolness.

Hatchie examined the lock upon the carpet-bag, and found that it entirely secured the contents from observation.

"I will trouble you for the key of this bag," said he, politely, as he rose and approached the attorney.

"What mean you, fellow? Would you rob me?" exclaimed Maxwell.

"Not at all, sir; do not alarm yourself. The key, if you please. In which pocket is it?"

Hatchie approached, with the intention of searching his prisoner.

"Stand off, villain!" cried Maxwell, as he gave the mulatto a hearty kick in the neighborhood of the knee.

"Very well, sir," said Hatchie, not at all disconcerted by the blow.

Taking the rope he had brought, he dexterously passed it round the legs of the attorney, and made it fast to the tree.

"Now, sir, if you will tell which pocket contains the key, you will save yourself the indignity of being searched."

"Miserable villain! if you wish to commit violence upon me, you must do it without my consent."

"Sorry to disoblige you, sir," said Hatchie, with an affectation of civility; "but I must have the key."

"I have not the key; it is lost. If I had, you should struggle for it."

"You will pardon me for doubting your word. I must satisfy myself."

"Help! help!" shouted the attorney, as his tormentor proceeded to put his threat in execution.

This was a contingency for which Hatchie was not prepared. To the little operation he was about to perform he desired no witnesses at present, and a slight rustling in the bushes near him not a little disconcerted him. Stuffing a handkerchief into the attorney's mouth, he waited for the intruder upon his pastime; but no one came, and he proceeded to search the pockets of the lawyer. To his great disappointment, the key could not be found.

Hatchie was persuaded that this carpet-bag must contain some evidence which would be of service to his mistress, in case Uncle Nathan and the will should not come to light. There were two acts to the drama he intended to perform on the present occasion; the first, alone with the attorney,—and the last, in the presence of witnesses. Deferring, therefore, the opening of the bag to the second act, he proceeded with the first.

"Now, Mr. Maxwell," said he, "as you have given me encouragement that you can tell the truth, I have a few questions to put to you."

"I will answer no questions," replied Maxwell, sullenly.

He saw that the mulatto would have it all his own way; and he felt a desire to conciliate him, but his pride forbade. He felt very much as a lion would feel in the power of a mouse, if such a thing could be.

"Please to consider, sir. You are entirely in my power."

"No matter; do with me as you please,—I will answer no questions."

"Think of it; and be assured I will do my best to compel an answer. If I do not succeed, you will be food for the buzzards before yonder sun sets."

"What, fellow! would you murder me?" exclaimed Maxwell, in alarm.

"I would not; if you compel me to use violence, the consequences be upon your own head. Will you answer me?"

Maxwell hesitated. The dreadful thought of being murdered in cold blood presented itself on the one hand, and the scarcely less disagreeable thought of exposing his crimes, on the other. The loss of reputation, his prospective fall in society, were not less terrible than death itself. Resolving to trust in his good fortune for the result, he firmly refused to answer.

Hatchie now took the rope, and having cut off a portion from one end, with which he fastened together the legs of his prisoner, he ascended the tree with an end in his hand. Passing the rope over a smooth branch about fifteen feet from the ground, he descended and made a slip-noose in one end. Heedless of the remonstrances of the victim, he fastened it securely to his neck.

Seating himself again on the log, with the other end of the rope in his hand, he looked sternly upon the attorney, and said,

"Now, sir, I put the question again. Will you answer me?"

"Never!" said Maxwell, in desperation.

"Very well, then; if you have any prayers to say, say them now; your time is short."

"Fool! villain! murderer! I have no prayers to say. I am not a drivelling idiot, or fanatic; I can die like a man."

"You had better reconsider your determination."

"No, craven! woolly-headed coward! I will not flinch. Do you think to drive a gentleman into submission?"

"Be calm, Mr. Maxwell; do not waste your last moments in idle invectives. The time were better spent in penitence and prayer."

"Pshaw! go on, if you dare, with your murderous work!"

Hatchie now unloosed the cords which secured the attorney to the tree, and he stood bound hand and foot beneath the branch over which the line was passed. Seizing the end of the rope, the mulatto pulled it gently at first, but gradually increasing the pressure upon the prisoner's throat, as if to give him a satisfactory foretaste of the hanging sensation. This slow torture was too much for the attorney's fortitude; and, as his respiration grew painful, he called to his executioner to stop. Hatchie promptly loosened the rope.

After giving the victim time to recover from the choking sensation, the mulatto repeated his question.

The fear of an ignominious death, of dying under such revolting circumstances, had a cooling effect upon the bravado spirit of the lawyer. His pride had received a most salutary shock, and he felt disposed to treat for his life, even with the despised slave of Miss Dumont. Had his tormentor been any other than one of that detested race, he could easily have regarded him as a man and conceded something for the boon of life. Reduced to the last extremity by the relentless energy of his victor, he had no choice but to yield the point or die.

"Will you answer my questions?" repeated Hatchie, sternly.

"What would you have me answer?" replied Maxwell, doggedly.

"Did you forge the will by which my mistress is deprived of her rights?"

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

Maxwell hesitated, and Hatchie again pulled the rope till his face was crimson.

"Who forged the will?" repeated Hatchie, slackening the rope.

"I did not," replied Maxwell, as soon as he could regain breath enough to speak.

"Who did?"

"I know not."



Hatchie pulled the rope again.

"Your master—"

"I have no master. Miss Emily is my mistress."

"I have been told his name was De Guy."

"Who is De Guy?"

"A lawyer of New Orleans."

"And what agency had you in the affair?"

"None whatever."

"Then Mr. Dumont and De Guy are the only persons concerned in the transaction?"

"Yes."

"You are positive?"

"Yes."

"Then, how comes it, Mr. Maxwell, that they have intrusted you with their secret? How came you by this knowledge?" said Hatchie, fiercely, as he prepared, apparently, to swing up the attorney.

Maxwell was staggered by this question, and Hatchie perceived his discomfiture. That Maxwell had any agency in the transaction he only suspected; certainly it was not he whom he had seen with Jaspar on the night of his escape from Bellevue. There was much evidence for and much against him.

Maxwell, unwilling to criminate himself, was in a sad dilemma; his ready wits alone could save him. But his hesitation procured him another instant of suffocation.

"I obtained the knowledge from De Guy," said he, at last.

"How! did he voluntarily betray the confidence of his employer?"

"No, from his inquiries concerning the affairs of the family, I suspected something; when the will was read my impressions were confirmed. I charged him with the crime."

"Did he acknowledge it?"

"He did."

"Then why did you not expose the plot?"

"It did not suit my purpose."

"What was your purpose?"

"To marry Miss Dumont."

The attorney's answers seemed plausible. His actions were in conformity with his avowed purpose. If he wished to marry his mistress, he would not have joined in the plot. But the bill of sale, which Emily had mentioned to him, was against him. Poor Hatchie was no lawyer, and was sadly perplexed by the conflicting testimony.

"Where did you get that bill of sale?" said he.

Again the attorney hesitated, and again Hatchie pulled the rope till he was ready to answer.

"Is it a forgery?" said Hatchie, slackening the rope.

"Probably it is," replied Maxwell.

"Who wrote it?"

"De Guy."

"This De Guy is a most consummate villain, and shall yet be brought to justice. But how came it in your possession?"

"I received it from De Guy, as the agent of Mr. Dumont. In fine, I bought the girl," said Maxwell, maliciously.

Hatchie's temper had nearly got the better of him, for he made a spring on the rope, which threatened death to the attorney. But his judgment overcame his passion, and he again turned his attention to the great object before him.

"Now, Mr. Maxwell, as you are a lawyer," said Hatchie, "you are aware of the disadvantages I shall labor under in making the evidence you have furnished me available."

"I am," replied the attorney. "Do you think I would have yielded to you, if I had not known it?"

"Have you told me the truth in these statements?" asked Hatchie.

The attorney hesitated; but a sharp twinge at the neck compelled him to say that he had.

"Then I shall be obliged to trouble you to repeat some of your revelations. Now, mark me, Mr. Maxwell; I am going to procure the woodman and his son, to witness your statements."

"Fool! what avail will they be, extorted with a rope about my neck?"

"Perhaps we may be able to show you some law such as you never read in your books. If, as I suspect, this carpet-bag contains papers, I doubt not we shall find something to confirm your evidence."

The face of the lawyer grew a shade paler; but he spoke not.

"Before I go, let me charge you, at your peril, not to be obstinate; for here I solemnly assure you that you shall swing by the branch above you, if you refuse to answer," said Hatchie, going towards the cabin.

The scene of this exploit was at some distance from the log-cabin of the woodman, and the mulatto had scarcely got out of sight before Vernon appeared. He had been at a little distance from the parties during the whole scene, but he had too much respect for the prowess of his late conqueror to venture on a rescue. He had once been tempted to do so, and had made the noise which had disturbed Hatchie. The blackleg, without much sympathy for his confederate, had rather regarded the whole scene as a good joke than as a serious affair; and, as he approached the lawyer, his merriment and keen satire were not relished by the victim.

"But how is it, Maxwell, about this will? You have never told me about it," said Vernon, who, ruffian as he was, believed in fair play.

"I will tell you another time; cut these ropes, and let us be off."

"But let me tell you, my fine fellow, that though I can rob a man who has enough, I would not be concerned in such a dirty game as this," said Vernon, as he severed the ropes which bound the attorney. "If you have been helping old Dumont to wrong his niece, may I be hanged, as that nigger would have served you, if I don't blow the whole affair!"

"You know nothing about it; but, let me tell you, I am not concerned in the affair. The girl, I have no doubt, is a slave."

The confederates now made all haste to depart from their proximity to such dangers as both had incurred, and, by a circuitous way, reached the river, where, taking a boat, they rowed under the banks down stream.

Hatchie was disappointed, on his return, to find his prisoner had escaped. A diligent search, by the precaution of the confederates, was rendered fruitless.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"Why should my curiosity excite me To search and pry into the affairs of others, Who have to employ my thoughts so many cares And sorrows of my own?" LILLO.

Jaspar Dumont sat in the library at Bellevue. It was the evening after his return from Vicksburg. Near him, engaged in examining a heap of papers, was his new overseer, Dalhousie.

Jaspar was musing over the late turn his affairs had taken; and, while he congratulated himself on his present triumphant position, he could but regard with apprehension the future, which seemed to smile only to lure him on to certain destruction. The trite saying, "There is no peace for the wicked," is literally and universally true. The lowering brow, the threatening scowl, the suspicious glance, of the wicked uncle, were as reliable evidences of his misery as his naked soul, torn with doubt and anguish, could have been. Every new paper the overseer turned over produced a start of apprehension, lest it might contain evidence of his villany. His nerves had suffered terribly beneath the vision of guilt and punishment that constantly haunted him. His new overseer, whom he had partially admitted to his bosom as a confidant, had secured a strong hold upon his fears. His presence seemed necessary to cheer him in his lonely hours, to chase away the phantoms of vengeance that pursued him. Harassed by doubts and fears, his constitution was, in some degree, impaired, and his mind, losing the pillar upon which it rested, was prone to yield also.

Dalhousie examined with minuteness the papers to which his attention had been directed. Before him was a heap of documents of various kinds, all in confusion,—bills and bonds, letters and deeds, were thrown promiscuously together. His purpose was to sort and file them away for future reference. This confusion among the papers was not the work of Colonel Dumont; he had been strictly methodical and accurate in all his business affairs. This fact was attested by the occasional strips of pasteboard, on which were marked various descriptions of papers, as well as by bits of red tape that had secured the bundles.

Dalhousie perceived that the labyrinth he was engaged in exploring had not been the labor of the former owner of Bellevue, and he was perplexed to understand why Jaspar had taken such apparent pains to disarrange them. But Jaspar did have a motive; he had produced the disorder in his careless search for any paper which might be evidence against him. So heedlessly, however, had he ransacked the drawers, that, if any such were there, they must have escaped his notice. He was too much excited to do the work with the attention his own safety demanded.

Dalhousie continued to examine the papers, and Jaspar still trembled lest something might turn up which would give the overseer a confirmation of the opinions he had expressed at Vicksburg. Still Jaspar had not the courage to undertake the task himself. He allowed the overseer to perform it, in the very face of the danger he wished to escape.

The overseer seemed to Jaspar's troubled vision perfectly indifferent. He could discover no anxiety in his features, to indicate that he had any other purpose than to do his employer's bidding. A more close inspection would have developed a slight twinkle, as of anticipation, in the marble face of Dalhousie.

As he turned paper after paper, his eye rested upon a packet enclosed in a blank envelope. His curiosity was aroused, and, glancing indifferently at Jaspar, he saw that his piercing eye regarded him with intense scrutiny. Continuing his labor without disturbing the mysterious packet, he waited until the sharp eye of his companion was removed from him.

On the table by the side of Jaspar was a bottle of brandy, at which, at short intervals, the miserable man paid his devoir. Dalhousie did not, therefore, have to wait long before the keen watcher left his chair, and, with his back to him, took a long draught of the exciting beverage. The overseer, seizing the favorable opportunity, slipped the packet into his pocket. As indifferently as before, he completed the task, and Jaspar was relieved when he saw the papers again filed away.

Dalhousie sought his room, and, scarcely heeding the salutation of his wife, he seated himself, and drew forth the packet. Removing the blank envelope, he found it was a letter, directed to "Emily Dumont," with a request to Mr. Faxon that it might be delivered to her after the writer's decease. This seemed to imply that the writer had intended the clergyman as the keeper of the letter; but with this surmise the overseer did not trouble himself. He turned the letter over and over, examined the seal of Colonel Dumont, which was upon it, and, at last, as though he had satisfied the warning voice of conscience, he snapped the wax, and opened it. The letter was quite a lengthy one, yet, without raising his eyes, he completed the reading of it. A faint smile of satisfaction played upon his lips, as he re-folded the paper, and returned it to the envelope.

"You have a letter, Francois?" said his wife, who had watched him in silence as he read, and who noticed the complacent smile its contents had produced.

"Yes, Delia, and our fortune is at last come," replied Dalhousie, rising, and bestowing a kiss upon the fair cheek of the lady.

"Is it from France?"

"No, dear; it is from the land of spirits!" answered Dalhousie, with a good-natured laugh.

"Indeed! I was not aware that you had a correspondent there."

"But I have; and I am exceedingly obliged to him for putting me in possession of such useful information as this letter contains."

"Pray, who is your ghostly correspondent?"

"Colonel Dumont,—a deceased brother of the worthy Jaspar, in whose employ we now are."

"Do not jest, Francois!" said the lady, as a feeling akin to superstition rose in her mind.

"Jest or not, the letter was written by him," continued her husband, still retaining his playful smile.

"To you?"

"Not exactly; but I presume he meant it for me, or it would not have slipped so easily through Mr. Dumont's fingers into mine."

"To whom is it directed, Francois?"

"You grow inquisitive, Delia. I will tell you all about it in a few days. I must go now and see that the hands are all in their quarters;" and Dalhousie, to avoid unpleasant interrogatories, left the room.

The overseer went the rounds of the quarters, more as a matter of form than of any interest he felt in his occupation. A gentleman by birth and education, these duties were extremely distasteful to him,—embraced because necessity compelled him. His mind seemed far away from his business, for a party of negroes passed him on his return, upon whom he did not bestow the usual benediction the boys receive when found out after hours.

"Strike while the iron is hot," muttered he, as he entered the house, and gave his lantern to a servant. "If I don't do it to-night, it may be too late another time. The letter is in safe hands; and, as to the other traps, I must get them if I can. At any rate, I will try."

Approaching the door of the library, he knocked, and was requested to enter. Under pretence of receiving directions for his next day's operations upon the plantation, he entered, and opened a conversation with Jaspar. Walking carelessly up and down the room while his employer issued his commands, he occasionally cast a furtive glance at the secretary. Then, narrowing down his walk, he approached nearer and nearer to it, until his swinging arm could touch it as he passed. Finally he stopped, and leaned against the secretary, with his hands behind him. He appeared very thoughtful and attentive, while Jaspar, glad to find a theme he could converse upon, expatiated upon his favorite methods of managing stock and crops. The overseer listened patiently to all he said, occasionally interrupting with a word of approbation. The enthusiastic planter, suspecting nothing of the overseer, labored diligently in his argument, and did not notice that, when the attentive listener carelessly put his hands into his pockets, he conveyed with them the key of one of the drawers.

Dalhousie, having effected the object which brought him to the library, soon grew tired of the planter's arguments, and edged towards the door, through which he rather rudely made his exit.

Jaspar again relapsed into the moody melancholy from which the presence of the overseer had roused him. Sinking back into his chair, he again was a prey to the armed fears that continually goaded him. Occasionally he roused from his stupor, and, driven by the startling apparition of future retribution, paced the room in the most intense nervous excitement. Frequent were the stops he made at the brandy-bottle on the table; but, for a time, even the brandy-fiend refused to comfort him,—refused to excite his brain, or pour a healing balm upon his consuming misery. Again he sunk into his chair, overcome by the torture of his emotions, and again the gnawing worm forced him to the bottle, until, at last, nearly stupefied by the liquor, he slumbered uneasily in his chair. But the terrible apparition, which seldom left him when awake, was constant in his dreams; and, just as he was about to plunge into the awful abyss that always yawned before him, he awoke, and staggered to the bottle again. A gleam of consciousness now visited his inebriated mind, and he bethought himself of retiring. With a dim sense of his usual precaution, he reeled to the secretary, and attempted to lock the drawers. He discovered that one key was missing; but, too much intoxicated to reason upon the circumstance, he took another draught of brandy, and ambled towards his sleeping-room. He was too far gone to effect a landing at the head of the stairs, and fell full-length upon the floor when he released his hold of the banister.

Dalhousie was still up, and his knowledge of Jaspar's habits enabled him to judge the occasion of the noise he heard, and he immediately hastened to the rescue. "Lucky!" muttered he, as he lifted the fallen man. "He must have been intoxicated when he examined those papers, or he would have seen that letter."

Jaspar, who had not entirely lost his senses, muttered something about an accident, and clung closely to his companion, who soon deposited him on his bed.

The overseer, instead of returning to his room, descended to the library, where the light was still burning. Locking the door, he seated himself in the large stuffed chair, and drew from his pocket the letter he had purloined from the secretary. Opening it, he proceeded to a re-perusal of it. The letter was as follows:

"MY DEAR CHILD:—When you read this letter, your father will be no more. The last act of affection will have been performed, and the ground closed over your only earthly protector. I am aware that you will be exposed to many trials and temptations. The latter you are, I trust, prepared to resist; the former must come to all. I feel that I have done my duty to you, not only in bestowing an abundance of this world's goods, but that I have not entirely failed to implant in your mind the treasure 'which neither moth nor rust can corrupt.' I have done all that I could do, and in a short time I must lay my body in the grave, and leave you an orphan. But you are in the hands, and under the protection, of a Father who is infinitely more able to take care of you than I have been. Into His hands, with my ransomed spirit, I undoubtingly commit you.

"As I write this letter, I feel the hand of death upon me. In a few short days, it may be only hours, I must go. I am the less ready to bid you the everlasting adieu when I think of the dangers that may surround you. In my last hours I am doomed to the torments of suspicion. I pray God they may be groundless. Perhaps they are only idle fancies, the dotings of an over-anxious father. I feel, as the sands of life are fast ebbing out, that some great calamity is lowering over you. I know not that a remark I accidentally overheard should thus haunt me; but it has roused my suspicions, and the presage of calamity will not depart from me. I cannot, with the warning voice ever ringing in my mind, help taking steps to guard you against the worst that may befall you.

"My dear child, if I should disclose my suspicions, and they should prove unreasonable, I shall have done a grievous wrong to him I suspect. Although you cannot save me from the misery of doubting in my last hour, you can save me from injuring another in your good opinion. If I have wronged him, let the injury die with me. If my suspicions are not groundless, I offer you the means of saving yourself from the calamity that impends.

"Should any event occur after my death which deprives you of any of your inheritance, follow the directions I now give you.

"In the back of the lower drawer of the secretary you will find a secret aperture. The back of the drawer is a thick board, upon which is screwed, on the lower side, a thin slat. Take out the screws and remove the piece they secure, and the aperture will be seen. It contains a sealed packet, the contents of which require no explanation.

"If nothing happens after my decease, and you peaceably obtain all your rights, burn the packet without opening it. My unjust suspicions, then, cannot influence you, or injure the person to whom they refer.

"This letter you will receive from Mr. Faxon, to whom I recommend you for counsel and consolation in every trial.

"And now, my child, I must bid you farewell. I feel my end approaching. May God forever bless and preserve you!

"Your dying father,

"EDGAR DUMONT."

Dalhousie perused and re-perused this letter, until its contents were fixed in his mind. He had many doubts and scruples, both prudential and conscientious, in regard to the step he was about to take: but the chimera of fortune prompted him to risk all in the great project he had matured. Taking from his pocket a small screw-driver, with which he had prepared himself, he opened the drawer designated in the letter, the key of which he had secured. Emptying the drawer of its contents, he turned it over, and, to his great delight, perceived the slat as described in the letter. Removing the screws, he soon had the satisfaction of holding in his hand the packet which, he doubted not, would restore the heiress of Bellevue to her home and her estates, if she were still alive; or which would give him a hold upon Jaspar, by means of which he could make his fortune.

Dalhousie was not a natural-born villain. It was the pressure of necessity, the almost unconscious yielding of a weak resolution, which had led him thus far in his present illegal and dishonorable course. Of the heiress he knew nothing; and the thought of restoring her had never entered his head, much more his heart. The great purpose of his life was to make his fortune, and it was this idea alone which influenced him in the present instance. He had entered upon his duties at Bellevue only the day before; but so impatient was he to realize the hope which had brought him there, that every hour seemed burdened with the weight of weeks.

Carefully depositing its contents as he had found them, he locked the drawer, and put the key upon the floor.



CHAPTER XIX.

"The accursed plot he overheard, Its every point portrayed; Yet ere the villain's words were cold. The counter-plot was made."

Hatchie was chagrined at the loss of his prisoner. His diligent search was of no avail. The Chalmetta's boat, which lay at the wood-yard in the morning, was gone; so he had no doubt Maxwell had made his escape in it. Having no further motive in remaining at the wood-yard, he procured a small canoe, with the intention of joining his mistress at Cottage Island.

Seated in the stern of the canoe, Hatchie propelled it with only sufficient force to avoid the eddies which would have whirled his frail bark in every direction. His thoughts wandered over the events of the past few days. He moralized upon the conduct of the attorney and the uncle, and nursed his indignation over them. Hatchie was a moralist in his own way, but not a moralist only. The great virtue of his philosophy, unlike much of a more scholastic origin, was its practical utility. From the past, with its conquered trials, he turned to the future, to inquire for its dangers, to ask what snares it had spread to entangle the fair being whom he worshipped with all a lover's fondness, without the lover's sentiment.

We will not follow him in his peregrinations through the mazes of the misty future, for they were interrupted by the appearance on the water of a distant object, which excited his attention. A searching and anxious scrutiny convinced him that it was the boat in which Maxwell had made his escape. Though at a great distance from him, he could see that it contained two men. Guardian as he was of his mistress' honor and safety, the sight awakened all his fears and called up all his energy. Did they know that his mistress had gone to Cottage Island? It was possible that Vernon had obtained a knowledge of her movements. The faithful fellow was almost maddened at the thought.

The boat approached Cottage Island, and Hatchie observed them pull in under the high bank. This movement was ominous of evil, and all the mulatto's fears were confirmed, when, as they passed the mouth of the little stream, he saw one of them rise in the boat and point it out. Satisfied that his canoe was yet unnoticed by his enemies, and dreading no immediate danger, he paddled across the river so as to bring the island between them. When he had gained a position which hid him from their view, he used all his immense strength in propelling the canoe towards the island. A few minutes sufficed to bring him up with the western shore of the islet, his enemies being upon the opposite side. Keeping close to the high bank, he paddled down-stream to the lower extremity of the island, where the sound of voices caused him suddenly to check his progress, and gain a landing. Drawing the canoe out of reach of the current, he climbed up the bank, which, being near the down-stream end of the island, sloped gradually down, till it terminated in the low, sandy beach.

He reached the high bank without attracting the attention of the party of whose motions he wished to obtain a knowledge. He could now distinctly hear their conversation, though they were still at a considerable distance from him. Cautiously he climbed a thick cotton-wood tree, whose foliage completely screened him from observation, and there awaited the nearer approach of Maxwell and his confederate.

"Are you sure this is the island?" said Maxwell, when they had come within hearing of Hatchie.

"This must be the one," replied Vernon. "We shall soon see whether it is inhabited or not."

"With whom did the girl leave the wood-yard?"

"With a doctor who lives like a hermit on this island. I saw them from a distance get into the sail-boat, and I asked a boatman for the particulars."

"Who is the doctor?"

"Don't know. The boatman said it was an outlandish name, and he had forgotten it. You mean to have the girl, do you?"

"I do, if possible."

"O, it's quite possible—nothing easier. You say the girl belongs to you?"

"I do; did I not show you the bill of sale?"

"That might be a trick of your own, you know. It's a devilish queer story."

"Pshaw! man, are you crazy? This thing has startled your conscience more than all the crimes of a lifetime. What has gotten into you, Vernon? I never knew you to moralize before."

"Look here, my boy, I can do almost anything; but I would not wrong a woman,—no, not a woman,—I am above that," said Vernon, with much emphasis.

"But, man, she is my slave—a quadroon."

"Property's property; but since I met the girl in the boat, I am half inclined to believe she is no quadroon. Maxwell, I had a sister once, and may my body be rent into a thousand pieces but I would tear out the heart of the man who would serve her as you do this girl. If she is your property, why, that alters the case."

"Certainly it does; so, end your sermon, and tell me how to gain possession of my property."

"We can storm the island."

"What! two of us?"

"I can get plenty of soldiers, if you will pay them."

"I will give a thousand dollars for her; and, if I get her again, by heavens, she shall not escape me! I will put a pair of ruffles on her wrists such as the dainty girl never got of her milliner. How many persons are on the island?"

"That I don't know—perhaps half a dozen. Your hangman will be there," and Vernon chuckled at the thought of the scene he had witnessed near the wood-yard.

Maxwell's teeth grated, and Hatchie distinctly heard the malediction he bestowed upon him. Fears for his personal safety did not, for a moment, disturb him. Prudence alone prevented him from rushing upon the villains, and thwarting in its embryo stage their design upon his mistress.

"You mean," said Maxwell, "to take the girl from the house by force?"

"There is no other way."

"Then we had better examine the island, or it will not be an easy matter to land in a dark night."

"How does the owner land?"

"Probably by the little stream we saw above."

"Rather difficult navigation for a stranger. We had better land in this part of the island. Let us walk through the thicket and find the house."

Hatchie saw them attempt to pass through the thick brush; but the task was not an easy one. By the aid of a bowie-knife, with which they cut away some of the bushes, they penetrated to the larger growth of trees, where the under-brush no longer impeded their progress. They passed beyond the hearing of the mulatto, though from his elevated position he occasionally obtained a view of them, as they approached the cottage. Anxiously he waited their return, in the hope of getting more definite ideas of the time and method of the proposed attack upon the island.

After a careful survey of the premises, Maxwell and Vernon returned to their former position.

"Quite an easy job," said Vernon; "the only difficulty is this thick brush, which can be easily removed. I will cut away a part now."

"Very well," responded Maxwell, as his associate proceeded to cut away the bushes, and form a pathway through, the thicket. "When shall the thing be done?"

"As to that I can hardly say. When we get to Vicksburg we can decide. Better let the girl rest a week or so; for it may take that time to get things ready. You can't hire men to do such work as easily as you can to cut wood and dig ditches. It takes skill and caution."

"Very well, I am in no haste."

For nearly an hour Vernon labored at his task, and completed a path through which the party could easily pass to the cottage.

The object of their visit accomplished, Hatchie saw them return to their boat, and row down the river. After they had disappeared round a bend, he descended from the tree, and examined the labors of Vernon. He found the bushes which had been cut down were nicely placed at each end of the path in an upright position, so as to conceal it from the eyes of the passer. For a long time the mulatto reflected upon the conversation he had heard, and considered the means of defeating the diabolical plot. Against a band of ruffians, such as Vernon would enlist for the service, he could not contend single-handed. To remove his mistress from the island, while Henry Carroll lay helpless there, would not be an acceptable proposition to her. Resolving to lay the information he had gained before Dr. Vaudelier, he returned to his canoe, and, having rounded the island, reached the cottage by the usual passage.

* * * * *

Henry Carroll still slept. For six hours he had lain under the influence of the powerful opiate. Emily entered his chamber in company with the doctor, on their return from the wood-yard. The sight of Henry, pale and worn as he appeared, excited all her sympathy. His right arm, which was uninjured, lay extended on the bed; she gently grasped it, and, bending over him, imprinted upon his pallid lips a kiss, that was unknown and unappreciated by its recipient. Only a few days before she had listened to the eloquent confession of him who now lay insensible of her presence. She was a true woman, and the presence of Dr. Vaudelier did not restrain the expression of her woman's heart. It was visible in her pale cheek, in her heaving breast, and in her sparkling eye, from which oozed the gentle tear of affectionate sympathy.

She held his hand; unconsciously, at the silent bidding of her warm heart, she gently pressed it. As though the magnetism of love had communicated itself to the sleeper, he sighed heavily, and uttered a groan of half-subdued anguish. His eyelids fluttered; he was apparently shaking off the heaviness of slumber. His lips quivered, and Emily heard them faintly articulate her name.

At the request of the good physician, she reluctantly withdrew from the apartment.

The sufferer endeavored to turn in the bed; the effort drew from him a groan of agony, which, in a more wakeful state, a proud superiority over every weakness would not have permitted him to utter. His eyes opened, and he stared vacantly about the darkened chamber. The doctor took his hand, and examined his pulse.

"How do you feel, captain? Does your head ache?" asked he.

"Slightly; I am better, I think," replied the invalid, faintly.

"And you are better," said the doctor, with evident satisfaction. "The scalds are doing very well, and the wound on your head is not at all serious."

"Now, sir, will you tell me where I am?"

Dr. Vaudelier imparted the information.

"Emily! Emily! Won but lost again!" murmured Henry. "Would that we had sunk together beneath the dark tide!"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear captain. We must be careful of this fever."

"Distress myself!" returned Henry, not a little provoked at the coolness of the doctor. "You know not the loss I have sustained."

"But you must keep calm."

"Doctor, did you ever love?" asked Henry, abruptly, as he gazed rather wildly at his host.

This was a severe question to a man whose matrimonial experience was of such a disagreeable nature. But he remembered the day before marriage,—the sunny dreams which had beguiled many a weary hour,—and he sympathized with the unhappy man.

"I have," replied the doctor, solemnly, so solemnly that it chilled the ardent blood of the listener. "I have loved, and can understand your present state of feeling."

"Then you know, if I do not regain her whom I have lost, I had better die now than endure the misery before me."

The doctor was not quite so sure of this, but he did not express the thought.

"You will regain her," said he.

"Alas! I fear not. The boat was almost a total wreck. I saw scores of dead and dying as I clung to my frail support."

"Fear not. Believe me, captain, I am a prophet; she shall be restored to your arms again."

"I thank you for the assurance; but I fear you are not an infallible prophet."

"In this instance, I am."

Henry looked at the doctor, and saw the smile of satisfaction that played upon his usually stern features. It augured hope—more than hope; and, as the wrecked mariner clings to the disjointed spar, his mind fastened upon that smile as the forerunner of a blissful reunion with her his soul cherished.

"Be calm, sir, be calm; she is safe," continued Dr. Vaudelier.

"Do you know it?" almost shouted Henry, attempting to rise.

"Be quiet, sir," said the doctor, in a voice approaching to sternness; "be quiet, or I shall regret that I gave you reason to hope."

"Where is she?" asked Henry, sinking back at the doctor's reproof, and heeding not the darting pain his attempt to rise had produced.

"She is safe; let this suffice. I see you cannot bear more now."

"I can bear anything, sir, anything. I will be as gentle as a lamb, if you will tell me all you know of her."

"If you keep entirely quiet, we will, in a few days, let her speak for herself."

"Then she is safe; she has escaped every danger?"

"She has."

"And was not injured?"

"No; she was taken, it seems, from the wreck by a villain. Thank God, she has escaped his wiles!"

Henry's indignation could scarcely be controlled, even by the reflection that Maxwell's wicked intentions had been turned, by an overruling Providence, into the means of her safety.

Dr. Vaudelier related to his patient the incident of the wood-yard; not, however, without the necessity of frequently reproving his auditor, whose exasperation threatened serious consequences. When, at the conclusion of the narration, he told Henry that the loved one was at that moment beneath his roof, he could scarcely restrain his immoderate joy within the bounds of that quiet which his physician demanded.

"May I not see her?" said he.

"That must depend entirely upon your own behavior. You have not shown yourself a very tractable patient thus far."

"I will be perfectly docile," pleaded Henry.

"I fear I cannot trust you. You are so excitable, that you explode like a magazine of gunpowder."

"No, no; I solemnly promise to keep perfectly quiet. She will, I know, be glad to see me, wounded and stricken though I am."

"She has already seen you."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; and not content with seeing you merely, your lips are not yet cold from the kiss she imprinted upon them;" and a smile, not altogether stoical, lit up the doctor's cold expression. "You shall see her, but the instant I perceive that the interview is prejudicial to your nerves, I shall remove her."

"Thank you, doctor!" said Henry, fervently.

"O, it is part of my treatment. It may do you more good than all my physic. I have known such cases."

"I am sure it will," returned the patient.

Dr. Vaudelier retired, and after a serious charge to Emily, he reentered, leading the Hygeia who was to restore the sick man.

"Be careful," was the doctor's monition, as he elevated his fore-finger, in the attitude of caution; "be careful."

"O, Emily!" exclaimed Henry, more gently than the nature of the interview would seem to allow, as he extended his hand to her.

Emily silently took the hand, and while a tell-tale tear started from her eye, she pressed it gently; but the pressure startled the sick man's blood, and sent it thrilling with joy through its lazy channels. The invalid, as much as the pressure of the hand warmed his heart, seemed not to be satisfied with the hand alone; for he continued to draw her towards himself, until her form bent over him, and their lips met. It was the first time when both were conscious of the act. We will not go into ecstasies over the unutterable bliss of that moment. We will not deck our page with any unseemly extravagances. If the experience of the reader has led him through the hallowed mystery of the first kiss of love, he needs not another's fancy to revive the beatific vision. If not, why, thousands of coy and blushing damsels, equally in the dark, are waiting, from whom he may select one to assist him in solving the mystery. Besides, it is not always wise to penetrate the secrets of the heart, even in a novel; for there is a sacredness about them, a kind of natural free-masonry, which must not be made too common.

Dr. Vaudelier, when he saw that the patient was disposed to behave himself in a reasonable manner, withdrew from the room, and left them to the undisturbed enjoyment of their happy reunion. In an hour he returned, and peremptorily forbade all further conversation. He permitted Emily to remain in the room, however, on the promise to allow the invalid to use no further exertion in talking.

All day, like a ministering angel, she moved about his couch, and laved his fevered brow. All his art could not lure her into any conversation beyond the necessary replies to his questions concerning his physical condition. Henry was too thankful for being permitted to enjoy her presence to forfeit the boon by any untractableness, and, for one of his excitable temperament, he was exceedingly docile.



CHAPTER XX.

"Appius. Well, Claudius, are the forces At hand?

"Claudius. They are, and timely, too; the people Are in unwonted ferment."

KNOWLES.

It was midnight at Cottage Island,—the third night after the events of the preceding chapter. Henry Carroll, by the skilful treatment of his host, was in a great degree relieved from his severe pain, and had now sunk into a natural and quiet slumber. By his bedside sat Dr. Vaudelier. Emily had, an hour before, retired to the rest which her exhausted frame demanded. For the past three days she had watched patiently and lovingly by the invalid. And now she had only been induced to retire by the promise of the doctor to call her, if any unfavorable symptom appeared.

The threatened assault upon the island had been thoroughly considered, and for the past two nights the island wore the appearance of a garrisoned fortress, rather than the secluded abode of a hermit. Emily knew of the peril which now menaced her, but the ample means at hand for protection rendered it insignificant. All thought, even of her own security, was merged in her generous interest in the comfort of the sufferer.

The good physician was uneasy and disturbed, as he sat by the bedside of his patient. The circumstances which surrounded him were novel in the extreme. Accustomed as he had been to the quiet which always reigned in his domain, to find himself, as it were, the inmate of a fortress, in momentary expectation of an attack, was so singularly odd, that his natural indifference deserted him. He had collected quite a large force of his humble neighbors to assist him in his present emergency, and they were now making their final arrangements to meet the assault.

The doctor was restless; but it was not on account of any fear of his personal safety,—he was above that. The lonely and innocent being whom he had undertaken to protect had filled his mind with a sense of responsibility. A single day had been long enough for Emily to win a way to his affections, and he had grown to regard her with the tender care of a father. Occasionally he left his place at the bedside, and went to the window, as if to assure himself that the attack had not already commenced.

In front of the cottage a different sentiment prevailed among the motley group there assembled. There were twenty men, including Hatchie, all armed with rifle and bowie-knife, and every one anxious for the fight to commence. Besides their arms, each man was provided with a small cord, and a torch of pitch-wood, the end of which had been plentifully besprinkled with turpentine.

The party was composed mostly of woodmen and boatmen, who had promptly and willingly obeyed the doctor's summons. Like most men of their class in that locality, they were hardy and reckless; they had not that healthy horror of a mortal combat which the moralist would gladly see. Dr. Vaudelier had always been their friend; had always promptly and kindly aided them in their necessities, whether moral, physical, or pecuniary. As he had laved the fevered brows of their wives and children, so had he said prayers over their dead, in the absence of a clergyman. He had exhorted the intemperate and the dishonest, and with his purse relieved the needy in their distress. They were not ungrateful; they appreciated his many kindnesses, and rejoiced in an opportunity to serve him. These men, notwithstanding their rude speech, their rough exteriors, and their reckless dispositions, were true-hearted men. They reciprocated the offering of a true friendship, not by smooth speeches and unmeaning smiles, but by actions of manly kindness. The philosopher in ethics may say what he pleases of the refinements of sympathy; we would not give a single such heart as those gathered on Cottage Island for a whole army of puling, sentimental, hair-splitting moralizers. They were men of action, not of words; and, though they hesitated not, in what they deemed a good cause, to close with their man in deadly combat, they were true as steel to a friend in the hour of his need.

With these men the exploits of Hatchie, which had been related, and perhaps exaggerated, by Jerry Swinger, who was a leading spirit of the party, had been much applauded, and he had, in spite of the odium of his social position, obtained a powerful influence over them. They heard him with attention, and deferred to his skill and judgment. By his advice, and to remove the confusion of the affray from the vicinity of the cottage, it was determined to receive the invaders near the beach where he had overheard Vernon propose to land. Jerry Swinger, whom natural talent and the wish of the party seemed to indicate as leader, marched the expedition towards the avenue which had been made in the bushes by the ruffians.

For so many men, excited as they were by the anticipation of a conflict, they were remarkably quiet and orderly. Dr. Vaudelier had cautioned them to avoid all noise, and not to fire a rifle unless absolutely necessary. He had also instructed them to make prisoners of the assailants, if possible, without injuring them.

Jerry Swinger stationed his party near the avenue, ready to spring upon and overpower the foe, when the favorable moment should arrive.

An hour passed by, and the impatience of the ambushed woodmen seemed likely to give their faithful leader some trouble, when the careful dip of oars near the shore saluted their ears. In a whisper Jerry gave the oft-repeated caution for silence, and charged them to be prompt when the moment came.

The assaulting party approached the shore. There were two boats, the foremost of which contained eight men, under the direction of Maxwell, and the other six, led by Vernon. The latter had reconnoitred the island several times, and had somewhat modified the plan of the attack, on discovering that the cottage, for the past two nights, had been occupied by more than its usual occupants. Several men had been seen to land there; but, as his preparations on the lower part of the island were undisturbed, it never occurred to him that his purpose would be anticipated.

Vernon had procured the services of fourteen men, chicken-thieves, and others of desperate fortunes, to engage in the enterprise, by holding out to them the hope of plunder, of which the cottage, he assured them, would afford an abundant harvest. The real purpose of the expedition was, therefore, unknown to any of the party, except the leaders. The prospect of a sharp fight had not in the least dampened the ardor of their hopes. With men of their craft it was a dull season, and the prospect of "cracking a crib" plentifully stored with valuables was quite a pleasant anticipation.

It was arranged that Maxwell, with the larger portion of the desperadoes, should land at the lower part of the island, and, if any defenders appeared, commence hostilities, and draw them away from the house, while Vernon, with the most experienced of the "cracks-men," should assault the house, and effect the purpose of the enterprise. In the person of one of the chicken-thieves a pilot for the creek was discovered; and, to make assurance doubly sure, it was decided that Vernon should approach the cottage by the usual channel.

Maxwell's boat was beached, while that of Vernon proceeded up the river to the little stream. The skill of his pilot, of whom Vernon had felt many doubts, soon brought him to the creek. The current, he found, was quite rapid, and he feared it would carry him into the midst of the "enemy's camp" before Maxwell should have made his demonstration. As the boat was whirled along towards the centre of the island, for the oars could not be used, on account of their noise, his position seemed to grow desperate. Vernon was on the point of risking the noise, and taking to the oars, when he discovered an overhanging branch, which he seized as the boat passed under it. Fortunately for him, a bend in the stream turned the current from the middle of the creek, or its violence would have drawn him into the water. By the aid of his companions, he succeeded in making the boat fast to the branch. He listened; but all was still. There were no indications of the approach of the other party.

Seating himself in the stern-sheets of the boat, he again considered the operations in which he was soon to engage; but, as these were necessarily to be directed by the circumstances of the moment, his deliberations soon gave way to that impatience which the perpetrator of crime experiences at an unexpected delay. His eager spirit was, however, soon gratified by sounds of conflict, which proceeded from the part of the island where Maxwell had landed. Awhile he listened, and the sounds grew more and more distinct. Loosing the boat from its aerial moorings, it was again driven by the current towards the landing in front of the cottage. Preparations were now made to effect the grand object, and, landing by the side of the doctor's yacht, Vernon found no one to oppose his progress, though the sounds from the lower extremity of the island indicated that the affray was growing hotter and more violent. At the head of his party, Vernon was about to enter the house, when the approach of a body of men from the scene of action caused him to pause, and await their approach.

Maxwell had landed on the beach, and, not suspecting the proximity of the ambush which waited to receive him, had proceeded towards the avenue made at his first visit to the island. Removing the loose bushes, they attempted to pass through; but no sooner were they fairly involved among the young trees than Jerry Swinger shouted his first order, to light the torches, and, in an instant, the woods were illuminated, and the position of both parties disclosed. This was, undoubtedly, a masterly stroke of preparation on the part of Jerry. The torches, on the application of the match, emitted a broad sheet of flame, which glared upon the invaders like a sudden flash of lightning, and utterly confounded them. It seemed like the bolt of Omnipotence thrown across their path in the hour of their great transgression.

Maxwell was unprepared for an immediate attack. He had calculated on effecting a junction with Vernon in the vicinity of the cottage. Before his party had time to recover from the panic, they were surrounded by the resolute woodmen. The attorney, who was as brave and active as he was unprincipled and cunning, was not a man to be defeated without a stout resistance. Encouraging his party by shouts, and by his own example, a general engagement ensued.

Hatchie no sooner saw the foe of his mistress' peace, than, stepping between him and Jerry Swinger, who also had an account to settle with him, he knocked down the pistol which was levelled at his head, and grasped him by the throat. In the hands of Hatchie the attorney was as nothing. The stalwart mulatto cast him upon the ground, and, with his cord, bound him hand and foot. The leader vanquished, it was the work of but a few moments to secure the rest of the assailants.

Jerry Swinger learned, from sundry exclamations of the defeated party, that another portion of the expedition was to land at the creek. Leaving a few of his men in charge of the prisoners, he made all haste, with the remainder, towards the cottage.

The affray had occupied but a few moments. The sturdy woodmen, accustomed to such scenes, and animated by a high motive, had done their duty promptly and efficiently, as the woful appearance of the disconcerted ruffians testified. Some hard blows had been dealt; some few upon both sides were severely wounded; but, considering the desperate character of the invaders, the masterly tact of Jerry Swinger had evidently saved much bloodshed.

Hatchie, as soon as he had secured his prisoner, hastened, somewhat in advance of Jerry's party, towards the cottage.

Vernon waited the approach of the party in front of the cottage. While it was yet at some distance, he discovered Hatchie, whom he recognized by the light of his torch, running in front of it. The appearance of the mulatto, alone, he interpreted as the signal of victory to the party in conjunction with him, who, he imagined, were pursuing him. Resolving, therefore, to lose no more time, he advanced towards the house, ordering two of his followers to secure Hatchie.

Dr. Vaudelier had heard the sounds of the distant encounter, and occasionally sought the window to assure himself the invaders did not approach the cottage. The glaring torch of Hatchie, who was running towards the house, gave him some misgivings, and, seizing the pistols which lay upon the table, he went to the door, on opening which he was confronted by Vernon.

"Come on, boys! come on!" shouted the ruffian, as he pushed by the doctor. "The way is clear; let us make quick work."

The pistol of Dr. Vaudelier had been raised to shoot down the assailant; but his hand dropped at the sound of his voice, he staggered back and let the weapon fall from his hand, and uttered an exclamation of intense feeling.

"This way, men! this way!" shouted Vernon, as he pressed on.

Entering the room at the right of the entry, in which a bed had been temporarily placed for the use of Emily, he found the affrighted girl, who had been aroused from her transient slumber by the noise of the attack. Rising from the bed upon which she had merely thrown herself, she was confounded by the appearance of her former persecutor.

"Ah, my pretty bird, you are again in my power, and I shall take care that no weak indulgence again deprives me of your society," said Vernon, as he seized her arm, and attempted to hurry her from the room.

"Unhand me, villain!" exclaimed she, roused to desperation by the sudden and painful change which had overtaken her.

"Do not pout, my pretty dove! there is no chance to escape this time. Your valuable assistant, that bull-headed nigger, cannot help you; so I advise you to come quietly with me."

"Never, villain! I never will leave this house alive!"—and she struggled to free herself from the ruffian's grasp.

"Nay, nay, lady! do not be unreasonable."

"Help! help!" shouted Emily, with the energy of desperation.

"No use, my pretty quadroon; I put your man, Hatchie, into the hands of two stout fellows; he cannot come, even at your bidding."

The ruffian had hardly finished the sentence before a heavy blow on the back of the head laid him prostrate upon the floor.

"You are a false prophet," said Hatchie, quietly, as he assisted his mistress to a sofa, while Jerry Swinger, who had followed him, examined the condition of the fallen man.

"Thank God!" continued Hatchie, "we have beaten them off."

"Heaven is kinder to me than I deserve," murmured Emily, bursting into tears, as the terrible scene through which she had just passed was fully realized. "But where is Henry—Captain Carroll—is he safe?"

"All safe, ma'am; the catamounts have not been in his room," replied Jerry Swinger. "Cheer up, ma'am; it mought have been worse."

"Let us carry this carrion from the house," said Hatchie, seizing the prostrate Vernon in no gentle gripe. "Let us fasten him to a tree, and I will not take my eye from him or the lawyer till both are hung."

"Stay, stay, Hatchie!" exclaimed Dr. Vandelier, who at that moment entered. "He is my son!"

"Good heavens!" said Emily, rising from her recumbent posture on the sofa.

"It is indeed true," replied the doctor, in a melancholy tone. "I would that he had died in the innocency of his childhood. I recognized him as he entered the house, and had nearly lost my consciousness, as the terrible reality stared me in the face, that my son, he whose childhood I had watched over, who once called me by the endearing name of father, is a common midnight assassin!

"Is he your persecutor?" continued the doctor, relieved by an abundant shower of tears which the terrible truth had called to his eyes. "Is he the person who has caused you so much trouble?"

"No, no, sir!" responded Emily, eager to afford the slightest comfort to the bereaved heart of the father; "he only acted for Maxwell."

"A hired villain! without even the paltry excuse of an interested motive to palliate the offence. O God! that I should be brought so low!"—and the doctor wrung his hands in anguish.

"Perhaps, sir," said Emily, "he is not so bad as you think; let us hear before we condemn him."

Her resentment, if her gentle nature had for a moment harbored such a feeling, had all given way to the abundant sympathy she felt for the doctor in his deep distress. Forgiving as the spirit of mercy, she now applied restoratives to the man who had so lately attempted to wrong her; and Dr. Vaudelier, with a sad heart, assisted her in her merciful duty.

Hatchie, on his approach to the cottage, had been assailed by the men whom Vernon had sent to secure him. A severe encounter had ensued, and although Hatchie's great muscular power and skill had enabled him to keep his assailants at bay, he would eventually have had the worst of it; but Jerry Swinger came to his aid in season for him to save his mistress from injury. Vernon's party, like that of Maxwell, were all secured.

The noise caused by the entrance of Vernon had awakened Henry Carroll from his slumbers. He listened, but could not make out the occasion of it; for, in consideration of his feeble condition, he had not been informed of the meditated attack. The cry for help uttered by Emily convinced him of the nature of the disturbance. His first impulse was to rise and rush to her assistance; but of his inability to do this he was painfully reminded in his attempt to rise. The heavy fall of Vernon on the floor, and the voice of Hatchie, assured him that, whatever the affair might be, it had assumed a new phase. His painful apprehensions were quieted by the appearance of Hatchie, who in a concise manner related the events of the night.

The last lingering doubt of the suspicious invalid was removed by the entrance of Emily herself.

"You are safe, dear Emily!" exclaimed he.

"I am, thank God!"

"And I could not assist in your defence!"

"Heaven will protect me, Henry. It seems as if a veritable angel hovered over my path to shield me from the thousand perils that assail me."

"The angels do hover around you, Emily; you are so pure, and good, and true, that they are ever near you, even in your own heart. Angels always minister to the good,—to those who resist the temptations of the world."

"You speak too well of me. But you have been excited by this tumult, Henry."

"I was a little disturbed; but, unable to help myself, I could do nothing for others,—not even for you, dearest."

"I know what you would have done, if you had been able. I know your heart, and I feel just as grateful as though your strong arm had rescued me."

Dr. Vaudelier, who had succeeded in restoring Vernon—or, by his true name, Jerome Vaudelier—to consciousness, now entered the room. He appeared more melancholy and harassed in mind than Emily had before seen him. His soul seemed to be crushed by the terrible realization that his son was a common felon—worse than felon, the persecutor of innocence. A soul as sensitive as his to the distinctions of right and wrong could hardly endure the misery of that hour.

With an absent manner, he inquired into the condition of the patient, and took the necessary steps to soothe him to slumber again.

Hatchie, having satisfied himself that the prisoners were all safe, left them under guard of the woodmen, and returned to the chamber of the sick man; and, at the doctor's urgent request, Emily left Henry to his care.



CHAPTER XXI.

"Friar Can you forgive? Elmore. As I would be forgiven."

LOVELL.

On the morning following the defeat of Maxwell and Vernon, it became necessary to make some disposition of the prisoners, so that the conquerors could attend to their daily duties. Their number was too large to be left upon the island in the absence of its defenders. A consultation between Dr. Vaudelier and the principals of the party took place. There were so many difficulties in the way of bringing the invaders to justice, that it was finally decided to release them all. The burden of the evidence was against the physician's son. The doctor, however much he deprecated the deed, was anxious to save his son from the publicity of a trial. His friends, seeing the melancholy truth, relieved his mind by suggesting that all of them be released, which was accordingly done.

Vernon had entirely recovered from the effects of Hatchie's blow, and was seated at the window of his apartment, contemplating the means of escape. At his father's request, two men had sat by him during the night, as much to prevent his escape as to minister to his wants. The watchers were still in the room. Vernon was not yet informed of the relation he sustained to the proprietor of the mansion in which he now involuntarily abode. He thought that, considering the unequivocal circumstances under which he had been made a prisoner, he was treated with a great deal of gentleness; but to him the reason was not apparent. He had been an alien from his father's house for a long period, and was not acquainted with the history of the past three or four years of the doctor's life.

His mind was now occupied in devising the means of escape; and just as he had struck upon a feasible project, he was interrupted by the entrance of Jerry Swinger, who had been sent by Dr. Vaudelier to ascertain the present frame of his son's mind, and broach to him the tidings that he was beneath his father's roof,—a circumstance of which his watchers were also ignorant.

"Well, stranger, how do you feel yourself, this morning?" asked Jerry.

"Better. That was a cursed hard rap which some one gave me, last night," replied Vernon,—as, from the force of habit, we must still call him.

"That are a fack, stranger; the man that gin you that blow has a moughty hard fist; and I advoise you to keep clear of him, or he will beat you into mince-meat."

"I will try to do so."

"You will larn to, if he mought have one more chance at that head of yours."

"Who is he?"

"He's an oncommon fine fellow, and made your cake dough once before."

"Ah, was it Miss Dumont's—that is, the quadroon's servant."

"Quadroon, man!—that's all humbug. But he's the boy, and is bound to fotch his missus out straight, in the end."

"Well, if she is his mistress, I hope he may. I wish her no harm, however much appearances belie me."

"Is that a fack, stranger?"

"Certainly; she never did me any harm."

"Then what mought be the reason you were so onmerciful to her?"

"I never used her hardly. My friend said she was his slave, and all I wished was to have him obtain his own. In short, I was paid for my services."

"No doubt of it, stranger. But I can't see how the tenth part of a man could hunt down such a gal as that,—it's onnateral. Besides, you didn't believe she was a slave."

"'Pon my honor I did, or I would not have lifted a finger. But I see you have released the rest of your prisoners,—I hope you will be as generous towards me."

"Don't flatter yourself, stranger!"

"I have a mortal aversion to courts of justice."

"Quite likely," returned Jerry, pleased with the man's frankness.

"Besides, I belong to a respectable family, who will not mind paying something handsome to avoid exposure."

"Can't be bought, stranger; besides, respectable villains arn't any better nor others."

"True; but, you know, their friends, who are educated, are more sensitive in such matters than others."

"That mought be true, for's aught I know; but it's mighty strange you never thought of that sarcumstance before."

"Never was in limbo before."

"That's the go, is't? Look-a-here, stranger, is it the darbies, or the crime, which brings the disgrace upon the family? Accordin' to my notion,—and I believe I've got something besides nits and lice in my head,—it's the deed, and not the punishment, that fotches the disgrace. But whar does your family live?"

"In New Orleans," replied Vernon, who knew nothing to the contrary, though we are not sure that, if he had, it would have made any difference in his reply.

"And your name is Vernon?"

"It is."

"Is that your family name, or only a borried one?"

"It is my real name," replied Vernon, not a little perplexed by the coolness and method of the woodman's queries.

"I rather guess not," suggested Jerry, mildly.

"'Pon my honor—"

"Think again,—maybe you mought fotch the real one to your mind."

Vernon, whose temper was not particularly gentle under contradiction, was nettled, and disposed to be angry.

"Perhaps you know best," said he, conquering his passion, and assuming one of those peculiarly convincing smiles, which must be an hereditary possession in the family of the "father of lies."

"Perhaps I do," replied Jerry. "If you don't know any better than that, why, then, I do know best. It arn't Vernon."

"It is not manly, captain, to insult a prisoner," replied Vernon, with an air of dignity, which came from the same source as the liar's smile.

"I don't mean to insult you, stranger; but facts is facts, all over the world," said Jerry, untouched by the other's rebuke.

"What mean you?"

"Nothin', stranger, only I know you. Your mother arn't livin'."

"No," returned Vernon, with a start; for, with all his vices and his crimes, a sense of respect for the name and honor of his family had outlived the good principles imbibed upon a mother's knee. Although a villain in almost every sense of the word, there were many redeeming traits in his character, which the reader will be willing to believe, on recalling his expressions of conscientiousness uttered to Maxwell. Family pride is often hereditary, and the reverses and degradations of a lifetime cannot extinguish it. It was so with Vernon. His real name was unknown, even among his most intimate associates. He had early taken the precaution—not in deference to the feelings of his father—to assume a name; it was from pride of birth, which shuddered more at the thought of a stain upon the family escutcheon than at all the crimes which may canker and corrode the heart.