"My mother is not living," continued he; "but how know you this?"

"It don't matter, stranger. Have you seen your father lately?"

"Not for many years. I am an outcast from his presence," replied Vernon, with some appearance of feeling.

"That's onfortunate; does he know what sort of a lark you are?"

"I hope not," replied Vernon, with a sickly smile.

"But he does; he knows all about this ongodly scrape you got into last night."

"What mean you?" said the ruffian, sternly.

"Mean? Why, just exactly what I say, Mr. Vaudelier! Don't start! I know you as well as you know yourself."

Vernon bit his lips; he was confounded at hearing his name uttered,—a name which had not greeted his ears for many years. His passion was disarmed before the rude but cutting speech of the woodman, whose knowledge of human nature, bred in the woods as he had been, was remarkable. There are men in the world, supposed to be entirely intractable, who, when rightly approached, prove as gentle as lambs. There is no evil without its antidote, however deeply it may be hid from the knowledge of man; and there is no man so vile that he cannot be reformed. The image of God, marred and disfigured as it may be, exists in every man, as the faultless statue exists in the rough block of marble; from which, when the fashioning hand, aided by the magic of genius, touches it, the imago of beauty shall come forth. So, when man, in whom always exists the elements of the highest character, shall be approached by the true reformer,—the highest and truest genius,—the bright ideal shall assume the actual form.

The woodman had touched a chord in the heart of the gambler which vibrated at his touch. It was not the words, but the genuine sympathy with which they were laden, that overcame the indifference of the vicious man. Perceiving his advantage, the woodman followed it up, repeatedly disarming the bolt of passion, which was poised in the mind of his auditor.

"Your father," said Jerry, "is a good man, and you mought go round the world without finding a better."

"Very true!" replied Vernon, moved to a degree he was unwilling to acknowledge.

"Now, if you jest turn over a new leaf in the book of life, and try to fotch out right in the end, I believe the old man would cry quits on the old score."

"Send those men away, captain! I will not attempt to escape."

Jerry complied, and the watchers took their departure.

"Where is my father?"

"Close by, stranger. May be you'd like to see him?"

"On no account!"

"That's a good sign, anyhow," muttered Jerry. "You will have to see him, I am afraid. You are under his ruff."

Vernon, completely overcome, staggered to a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"Not so bad a boy as one mought suppose," soliloquized Jerry, as he went to the door, and requested the servant to summon Dr. Vaudelier. "The fellow has fed on husks long enough, and, as the scripter says, he is goin' to rise and go to his dad."

"Do not let my father see me,—anything, rather than that!" exclaimed Vernon, rising, and grasping the woodman's arm. "I am a great villain!"

"That's very true, stranger; but you have got into the scrape, and the best thing you can do is to get out on't."

"How can I!"

"Be an honest man."

"I fear I never can be that."

"Try it! There is something left of you."

At this moment Dr. Vaudelier entered the room. His aspect was stern and forbidding, and the son buried his face in his hands after the first glance at him.

"Jerome," said he, "you will bring my gray hairs with sorrow down to the grave."

"Easy with him, doctor, easy! He is a little touched, and, if you manage him right, you can fotch him over. He is under conviction now. Don't let on yet!"

"Jerome, this is a sorry visit you have made me," continued the doctor. "Are you entirely lost to all shame, that you could thus enter my house with a band of ruffians behind you?"

"Father," said the convicted Vernon, "I did not know it was your house, or I could never have done it."

"Alas, that a son of mine should have become a midnight assassin!" and Dr. Vaudelier covered his face with his hands, and sobbed like a child.

"Forgive me, father!" exclaimed the repentant son. "Forgive me!"

"God and your country alone can forgive crimes like yours!"

"Easy with him, doctor!" interposed Jerry, fearful lest the son's repentance should be dissipated before the father's sternness.

"I will atone for all, to the best of my ability."

"Would that you might do so!"

"I will! Heaven witness my sincerity!"

"Your first act of atonement must be to the lady you have so deeply injured."

"I would be her slave for life!"

"If you are sincere, you will disclose all you know of the wrongs which have been inflicted upon her."

"I fear, for her sake, that my knowledge is too limited to avail anything to her. Maxwell assured me she was his slave, and showed me the bill of sale. I believed him, or he could never have had my help."

"You were too willing to believe him," said the doctor, sternly.

"I told him, at the outset, that I would expose all I knew (which is but little), if I discovered she was not a slave. I will tell you all."

"Let Miss Dumont be called, Jerry."

Emily came at the summons, and Dr. Vaudelier informed her of the position of the matter.

"Can you forgive me, Miss Dumont, for the wrong I have done?"

"Freely, sir; and may God enable you to persevere in the course you have taken!"

"Thank you! With an angel's prayer, I shall begin the new life with the strength your good wishes impart."

Vernon now related all he knew of the machinations of the attorney, concealing no part of his own or his confederate's villany. Of the will he knew nothing, his operations having been confined to the attempts to obtain possession of her person.

Dr. Vaudelier was satisfied that his son had told the whole truth. It was a source of much satisfaction to him that he had chosen the better part. His fervent prayer ascended that the penitent might be faithful to his good resolutions.

All the circumstances relating to the will were unknown to Vernon, which was the occasion of much congratulation both to his father and to Emily. It seemed to relieve him from some portion of the guilt which the subsequent transactions fastened upon him; and, when these circumstances were related to him, a burst of generous indignation testified that he, the blackleg, the robber, was above such villany. However depraved in some respects, that vice which is commonly called meanness had no place within him. He was, or rather had been, of that class of operators who "rob the rich to pay the poor;" who have no innate love of vice, only a desire to be free from wholesome restraint, and have at hand, without toil or sacrifice, the means of enjoying life to the utmost.

"Jerome," said Dr. Vaudelier, "this Maxwell must be watched, and, if you are true to yourself, no one can do this duty as well as you."

"Trust me, sir! I am strong in this lady's service."

"I shall not doubt you, my son, until I have occasion to do so. I am satisfied, if Miss Dumont is."

"I feel perfectly confident in the good faith of your son, and am indebted to him for the zeal he manifests in my cause."

"Thank you, Miss Dumont," said Vernon. "You are too generous; but, be assured, your confidence shall not be abused."

It was determined that Vernon should immediately depart for Vicksburg, whither Maxwell had gone.



CHAPTER XXII.

"He gives me leave to attend you, And is impatient till he sees you."

SHAKSPEARE.

It was the afternoon of the same day, as Dr. Vaudelier was reclining upon a rustic seat near the landing, he was surprised by the appearance of a canoe coming down the creek. The canoe contained an elderly gentleman, and a negro, who, after several unsuccessful attempts, succeeded in landing the passenger upon the little pier. He was about fifty years of age, apparently. His hair and whiskers were a mixture of gray and black; his countenance was full, and his complexion florid, which contrasted oddly with the green spectacles that rested upon his nose.

"Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Vaudelier?" said, the stranger, in a tone so soft and silky that the doctor could hardly persuade himself it did not proceed from a woman.

"That is my name, sir; and to whom am I indebted for this unexpected pleasure?"

"De Guy, sir,—Antoine De Guy, at your service," squeaked the visitor, with whom the reader is already acquainted.

"Well, sir, may I inquire the object of your visit?"

"Certainly, sir. I am informed there is a lady at present residing with you, one of the unfortunate persons who were on board the Chalmetta at the time of her late disaster. A Miss Dumont."

"Who informed you, sir?"

De Guy hesitated a little, and then said he heard a number of gentlemen discuss the late disaster at the hotel in Vicksburg; that one of them had mentioned this fact—he really could not tell the gentleman's name.

"What is your business with the lady?" asked the doctor, to whom the idea of a new enemy of Emily had already presented itself.

"That, sir, I can best disclose to the lady in person," squeaked the street-lawyer, with a low bow.

"This way then," and the doctor led him to the library, into which he soon after conducted Emily.

"Miss Dumont?" said De Guy, rising and making a profound obeisance as she entered. "My name is De Guy."

Emily bowed slightly, but made no reply.

"May I beg that our interview may be private?" said the attorney, glancing at Dr. Vaudelier.

"This gentleman is my friend and confidant; it is not necessary that he should retire," replied Emily, as Dr. Vaudelier was moving towards the door.

"Very well, madam; though I think, from the nature of my business, you would wish it to be confidential."

"Perhaps I had better withdraw," suggested the physician.

"By no means, my dear sir; if this gentleman's visit relates to business matters, I must beg the favor of your counsel."

"As you please, Miss Dumont; I come charged with a message from your uncle, my respected client, Mr. Dumont."

"Indeed, sir!" replied Emily, a slight tremor creeping through her frame; "pray deliver it at once."

"It is simply to say your immediate presence at your late residence is necessary."

"Where did you see my uncle?" asked she.

"At Bellevue, madam, yesterday morning. I arrived at eleven o'clock to-day."

"When did Mr. Dumont return from his journey up the river?" asked Dr. Vaudelier.

De Guy reflected a moment; from the shade of displeasure on his countenance, it was evident he disliked the interference of the doctor.

"About four days ago."

"When did you last see your uncle, Miss Dumont?" asked the doctor.

"I have not seen him since the second day of our journey,"—which was the time that Jaspar had been left at the wood-yard.

"Probably, then, he has returned to Bellevue. It is singular that, under the instructions of the will, he should leave you in this unceremonious manner."

"Not at all," interrupted De Guy.

"You speak as though you were familiar with his motions," said Dr. Vaudelier, with a penetrating glance at the attorney.

"To some extent, I am," replied the silky-toned lawyer, with a smile which was intended to declare his own innocence in any of the plots of Jaspar. "He has voluntarily acquainted me with some of the particulars of this unfortunate affair."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Such is the fact," continued the attorney, with professional ease; "he has sent for Miss Dumont in order to effect a compromise."

"A compromise!" exclaimed Emily, with disdain; "there can be no compromise, short of restoring, absolutely, my rights!"

"It is very probable he is quite ready to do so," replied the accommodating attorney.

"May I ask what has produced this singular and sudden change in the purpose of my uncle?"

"Well, madam, it would be difficult to explain the precise reasons. His mind seemed troubled; I advised him to unburden to me, which he did. The conclusion of the whole matter is, he has taken this step by my advice," said De Guy, with an air of the deepest humility.

Emily was somewhat moved, by the revelation of the attorney, from the stern reserve she had manifested, and said,

"I am grateful for your interest in my behalf."

"Do not mention it, madam. There is a pleasure in doing one's duty, which is superior to every other gratification."

"May I ask what prompted you to give such advice?" asked Dr. Vaudelier, incredulously.

"The consciousness that my duty to this lady demanded it. It was not exactly in keeping with the profession, I am aware; but I felt obliged to sacrifice professional consistency to the call of justice," said the attorney, in such a way as to leave it doubtful whether he was perpetrating a jest or a moral axiom.

"Humph!" said the doctor, with a doubtful sneer.

"Principle before professional advantage, is my motto, sir," continued De Guy.

"Pray, what gave you the first intimation that all was not right between this lady and her uncle?"

"The voluntary confession of Mr. Dumont," replied De Guy, readily.

"You do not believe Mr. Dumont would have abandoned his purpose, just as it was in the very act of being consummated, without a strong motive."

"True; I understand that the body-servant of the late Colonel Dumont is upon this island. He must have informed the lady, by this time, of his share in the transaction."

"Well."

"And Mr. Dumont saw the boy the night before he left the steamer."

"True."

"Was not the reaeppearance, the rising from the dead, of this man, quite enough to convince him that all his plans had failed?"

"Why so?"

"The boy had the will!"

"It is all plain to me," said Emily, more disposed to trust De Guy than Dr. Vaudelier was.

"Perfectly plain, madam; it is not at all strange that he should adopt this course. He must trust to his niece's good-nature to save him from exposure."

"Perhaps this is only a plan to get the lady into his power again," suggested Dr. Vaudelier.

"I assure you it is not. He is sorely troubled in mind, even now, at the guilt which is fastened upon him. His conscience is awakened."

"And well it might be," said the doctor.

"True," responded the silky attorney, with an appearance of honest indignation; "but when we see a man disposed to repent, we should be ready to assist him."

Dr. Vaudelier involuntarily turned his thoughts to the incidents of the morning,—called to mind the feelings which had been awakened in the presence of his penitent son, and he felt the full force of De Guy's argument.

"If Mr. Dumont is disposed to repent of the injury he has done his niece, and make atonement for it, I should, by all means, advise her to follow the course which, I am sure, her gentle nature suggests. 'To err is human; to forgive, divine.' The lady is a Christian, and will act in the true spirit of Christianity."

"I trust she will," responded De Guy, meekly; "I trust she will, and, with all convenient haste, try to mitigate his distress."

"I will! I will!" exclaimed Emily.

"Perhaps you will accompany me, as your uncle suggests," insinuated De Guy.

"There is certainly no need of such haste as this," said the doctor.

"Her uncle may change his mind."

"Then his penitence is not sincere, and he cannot be trusted."

"I should scarcely call it penitence, sir, since it is only the fear of discovery which has driven him to this step," said the attorney, branching off in to a new school of ethics.

"I can go in a few days," said Emily. "Captain Carroll, you think, is out of danger now?"

De Guy started, and a scowl of the deepest malignity overshadowed his countenance, which had before been that of a meek and truthful man. The change was so sudden that he seemed to be a man within a man, and the two creatures of an opposite character. Neither the doctor nor Emily noticed the start, or the sudden change of expression; and the attorney, seemingly aware of the danger of wearing two faces, restored the former aspect.

"I think he is entirely out of danger," replied Dr. Vaudelier, in reply to Emily's question. "Perhaps he will be able to accompany you in a few days."

Emily blushed, but made no reply, other than a sweet smile, betokening the happiness such an event would give her.

"I fear, madam, the delay will be dangerous," suggested De Guy, who did not relish the proposition of the doctor.

"Why dangerous? If Mr. Dumont changes his mind, we have the means of proving that that miserable will is false."

"You forget, sir, that Mr. Benson may be lost, and with him the will," interposed Emily, whose love of truth did not enable her to conceal the weakness of her case.

"Indeed! Is the will in the hands of a third party?" said the attorney, with apparent indifference, while, in reality, he was inwardly chuckling with delight.

"It matters not," replied the doctor; "the lady's case is safe. You can inform Mr. Dumont that his niece will present herself in a week or ten days."

"But, my dear sir, the delay will be fatal, both to the lady and her uncle," said the attorney, with alarm.

"It cannot be helped," said the doctor.

"Mr. Dumont's health, I fear, will render it unsafe to wait so long. Miss Dumont does not wish her uncle to die unforgiven."

"I will go, sir; I will go at once," exclaimed Emily, shocked at the condition of Jaspar, and anxious, as was her nature, to relieve the sufferings he must endure in her absence. She forgot how basely he had wronged her—how he had attempted her life; the divine sentiment, "Love your enemies," prevailed over every other consideration.

"Die unforgiven," muttered the doctor. "Is he sick?"

"He is, sir, and near his end."

"Why have you not mentioned this circumstance before? It seems of sufficient importance to merit a passing word."

"I wished not to distress the lady. I think I hinted that he was in great distress."

"I fear some evil, Miss Dumont."

"Be assured, sir, if Mr. Dumont meditates any further wrong, he has not the power of putting it into effect. He is prostrate upon his bed, and if his niece does not see him soon, it will be too late, if it is not so already. The stricken man must soon stand for judgment in another world," said De Guy, solemnly.

"This alters the case," said the doctor, musing.

"But, sir," continued the attorney, "I was aware that, after what has happened, my mission would be attended with many difficulties, and I have not come unprepared to overcome them. I do not wonder that you have no confidence,—I confess I should not have, under like circumstances. You know Dr. Le Verier?" and the attorney drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, and opening one, he glanced at the signature upon it, as he pronounced the name.

"I do, very well," replied the doctor.

"Our family physician!" exclaimed Emily.

"Here, madam, is his certificate of your uncle's physical condition," said De Guy, handing her the paper.

Emily read the paper, and handed it to the doctor.

"Very satisfactory," said he; "you will pardon me for doubting your word—"

"Don't mention it, sir," replied De Guy, blandly. "I fully appreciate your motive, and honor you for it. And you know Mr. Faxon?"

"O, yes—what of him," said Emily, eagerly.

"A letter from him," replied De Guy, giving her the missive.

Emily hastily broke the seal, and, as she examined its contents, the attorney appeared uneasy, and watched her with a solicitude such as attorneys seldom manifest in their clients, especially if the pockets of the latter be empty.

"I will go immediately!" exclaimed Emily, as she finished reading the letter. "Mr. Faxon says my Uncle Jaspar is quite a different man, and is ready to restore all my rights."

"Finally," said De Guy, "here is your uncle's own signature. This letter I wrote by his dictation, but he, with much difficulty, signed his name."

Emily perused the paper, which was a promise that Jaspar would restore all, and concluded with an earnest request for her to return to Bellevue with all possible haste. Emily recognized the signature, though it was apparently written by the trembling hand of a dying man.

"The papers are quite satisfactory," said Dr. Vaudelier, as he completed the reading of the note from Jaspar. "If you had presented them at first, I should have been spared my uncourteous suspicions. But you will pardon them, and consider that the lady's case requires the utmost caution."

"It was only in deference to the lady's nerves that I broke the intelligence gradually. I was quite willing to sacrifice myself, for the moment, in your good opinion, for her sake. I trust you will appreciate and regard my motives, as I do yours."

Henry Carroll, as may be supposed, was much against the plan of Emily's returning to Bellevue with De Guy. But a death-bed scene was a difficult thing to reason against, and he was obliged to yield the point before the earnest eloquence of Emily, and more calm persuasions of Dr. Vaudelier.

It was arranged that Hatchie should accompany her, and that the party should take the morning boat from Vicksburg.

Hatchie was immediately summoned to receive instructions in relation to their departure.

At the mention of Hatchie's name, the attorney grew marvellously uneasy, and suddenly recollected that the negro who had conveyed him to the island was waiting for him. He therefore proposed that Dr. Vaudelier should escort Emily to Vicksburg in the morning, which was readily agreed to, and De Guy made a precipitate retreat, without confronting the mulatto.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"Jaffier. O, Belvidera! Belvidera. Why was I last night delivered to a villain? Jaffier. Ha! a villain? Belvidera. Yes, to a villain!"

OTWAY.

Agreeably to the arrangement of the previous night, Emily was on board of the "Montezuma," prepared to commence her journey to Bellevue. While De Guy conducted Emily to the ladies' cabin, Hatchie was getting her few articles of baggage on board, and the boat was fairly under weigh without the faithful mulatto's having had a sight of the new protector of Emily. The attorney congratulated himself on this circumstance; his mind had thus been released from the pressure of a most painful anxiety. His plan was now accomplished.

But the meeting could not be much longer deferred. De Guy, however, now that they were free from the friends of Emily, no longer dreaded it.

The dinner hour arrived, and Hatchie was standing by the side of his mistress on the gallery, when De Guy approached and announced the fact. His voice startled Hatchie. It was the same squeaking tone he had heard at Bellevue on the night of his escape. He turned to look upon the speaker, and was confounded to behold the very person who had plotted with Jaspar on that memorable night! With a presence of mind which never deserted him, he held his peace, resolved not to frighten his mistress by exposing the fact.

Hatchie stood lost in thought on the gallery long after De Guy had conducted his mistress to the dinner-table. The mulatto was in a quandary,—a worse quandary than the congressional hero of Kentucky has described in any of his thousand relations of hair-breadth escapes. His mistress was fairly committed to her new destiny, and how could he extricate her?

He resolved to do the only thing he possibly could do,—to watch unceasingly, to be ever ready to defend his mistress in case of necessity. The papers which De Guy had brought from Bellevue, and which he heard described by the doctor, did much to assure him that no evil was intended towards her; but the man who had been a villain once was, in his opinion, exceedingly apt to be so again.

Emily was ill at ease during the passage; not that she felt unsafe, or dreaded treachery, but something seemed to whisper that evil might be near her. An undefined sensation of doubt seemed to beset her path, and urge upon her the unpleasant necessity of extreme caution. She was conscious of being engaged in a good work. She had forgiven her great enemy, and was now on her way to smooth his dying pillow. There was something lofty and beautiful in the thought, and she derived much consolation from it.

De Guy rarely intruded himself upon her notice during the passage. At meal-hours he was scrupulously polite and attentive, but he was as cold and formal as she could desire. She never ventured upon the promenade deck, unless her faithful Hatchie was near.

The mulatto, with all his watchfulness, was unable to discover any indications of treachery on the part of De Guy, though an apparently confidential conversation with the captain of the steamer, on the night before their arrival at New Orleans, had rather an unfavorable appearance.

It was late at night when the Montezuma arrived at New Orleans. The steamer quietly took her berth at the levee, so that few of the passengers took any notice of their arrival, and contentedly turned over in their berths to wait the advent of the coming day.

Hatchie, who occupied a room near the boiler deck, had been awakened by the confusion of making fast the steamer. His watchful vigil over the safety of his mistress did not permit him to slumber while the possibility of danger existed. He had, therefore, risen; but scarcely had he completed his dress, when the door of his room was suddenly opened, and himself violently seized by two stout men. The attack had been so sudden, and the movements of the assailants so well directed, that resistance was hopeless. Before he fully realized the presence of his foes, his hands were pinioned behind him. In this condition, without knowing why or by whom he was assailed, he was hurried away to the calaboose.

At an early hour in the morning carriages and drays began to assemble on the levee, and all the noise and bustle of landing passengers, baggage and freight, commenced.

Emily Dumont, as soon as it was fairly light, rose from her couch, and made her preparations to leave the steamer. Fully equipped for her journey to Bellevue, she entered the cabin, where De Guy soon presented himself.

"Where is Hatchie?" was the first question she asked; for Hatchie had always been on the spot whenever and wherever she needed his services.

"I have taken the liberty to send him up to the St. Charles with your luggage. You will, of course, breakfast there," said the attorney, blandly.

"Such was not my intention," replied she, as a cold tremor—she knew not why—agitated her.

"I am sorry to have mistaken your purpose; the ride to Bellevue is a long one to take without any refreshment."

"I mind it not; my haste is too great to admit of any delay."

"I sent by your servant to order an early breakfast, and a carriage at seven o'clock."

"Very well, I will conform to the arrangement you have made," replied Emily, with a dissatisfied air.

A carriage was called from the mass which had congregated, whose drivers were not a whit behind those of the metropolitan city in earnest perseverance; and De Guy assisted her into it, seating himself at a respectful distance on the forward seat.

Now, the act of engaging a cab or a carriage is of itself quite an easy matter; but we question whether passengers are generally as well suited as in the present instance. Without troubling the worthy Mr. De Guy with any foolish queries as to where he should drive them, the Jehu mounted his box, and conducted his team apparently to the entire satisfaction of his fare. It may be that the intelligent driver had a way of divining the wishes of his customers; or it may be that De Guy, in deference to any supposed repugnance to business matters on the part of his companion, had previously discussed this topic. Without any design of prejudicing the reader's mind in favor of the latter supposition, we confess our inclination to accept it as correct.

Emily vainly attempted to assure herself that her companion was conducting her in good faith to the home of her early years. An undefined feeling of insecurity was painfully besetting her, whichever way she turned. She considered and reconsidered the evidences he had brought to Cottage Island of the truth of his own statements, and of his own trustworthiness. It was all in vain. Could those papers have been forgeries? It was a terrible thought to her.

The carriage stopped, and the attorney invited her to alight. Change—anything, was a relief to the painful sensations which had almost overpowered her, and without reflection she did so. Her faculties were so confused she did not notice that it was not the private entrance of the St. Charles. She took everything for granted, and accepted the offered arm of De Guy. She crossed the broad side-walk, and, raising her eyes, was overwhelmed by seeing at the side of the door she was about to enter the sign of "Anthony Marwell, Attorney and Counsellor at Law."

"Please to walk up stairs," squeaked the attorney, drawing her after him to the inside of the door, which he immediately closed and bolted.

"Not a step further, sir!" said she, with as much firmness as she could command. "What means this? Am I again betrayed?"

"Nay, nay, madam, walk up quietly," said De Guy, in a soothing tone, as he applied a little gentle force to the arm he held.

"Unhand me, sir!" screamed Emily, as loud as her agitated condition would permit.

But De Guy heeded her not; and, without condescending to utter another word, he took her up like a child, and bore her up the stairs to Maxwell's office. Turning the key to prevent interruption, he opened the lawyer's private apartment in the rear, and placed the fainting girl upon the bed, and retired.

Unlocking the office door, he was confronted by an old negress, who had charge of the sweeping and cleaning department of the building.

"Sar! what's all dis about?" screamed she, in no gentle tone; for the colored lady had witnessed De Guy's achievement from the stair-case above.

"Hush, Dido—"

"Sar! who are you dat come inter Massa Maxwell's room widout no leave?"

"Never mind who I am, Dido. There is a lady in the bedroom, by whom Mr. Maxwell sets his life—do you hear?—sets his life. She has fainted, and you must take care of her,"—and De Guy slipped a half-eagle into the negress' hands.

"Dat alters de case," said the black lady, eying the money with much satisfaction. "Massa Maxwell's a sly dog. I take good care ob de lady—not de fus time, nuder."

"Don't let her get away; take good care of her, and you shall have half a dozen just such pieces."

"Never fear, Massa, I's use to de business."

De Guy left the building, satisfied, it would seem, of the negress' fidelity.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"Lieut. Forgive me, sir, what I'm compelled t' obey: An order for your close confinement.

"King H. Whence comes it, good lieutenant?

"Lieut. Sir, from the Duke of Gloster.

"King H. Good-night to all, then!"

SHAKSPEARE.

Connected with the estate at Bellevue, of which Jaspar Dumont was now in actual possession, was a small slave jail. It had been constructed under the immediate direction of Jaspar, to afford a place of confinement for the runaway or refractory negroes of the plantation. It was located at some distance from the proprietary mansion, and from the quarters of the negroes. Jaspar's taste in matters of this kind was of the most refined character, and he had caused it to be constructed on a plan and in a manner that would seem to bid defiance to the skill of a Baron Trenck, or a Stephen Burroughs. The material was granite, brought at no trifling expense from the North. There were no windows upon the sides, and only one entrance, which was secured by double iron doors. Light and air were supplied, in meagre quantities, by means of a skylight in the roof, which was regulated by a cord passing down upon the outside.

This jail, either by accident or design, was so constructed that any noise inside was not transmitted to the outside. Whether this was because of the reflecting properties of the walls, which might have sent the sound echoing out at the skylight on the apex of the four-sided roof, or because of some other natural causes, we shall not take up the reader's time in discussing. Its inmates might startle Heaven with their cries, but certainly every ear on earth below must be deaf to their wail. This circumstance seemed typical of the actual fact of oppression; but we are sure that Jaspar never meant to typify the groans, by man unheeded, of the victims of tyranny ascending to be heard above.

It was the day after the events related in the last chapter, and the negro jail was tenanted; but not by a refractory or a runaway slave. It was now devoted to a more dignified purpose, being occupied by a white man and his wife, the victims of Jaspar Dumont's hatred and fears. They had already been prisoners for the past forty-eight hours. No sound from the wide, wide world without had reached them; and, though the man had shouted himself hoarse in endeavors to arrest the attention of any casual passer-by, the sound of his voice had risen to Heaven, but had not been heard by any mortal ear.

On a heap of dirty straw, in one corner, lay a female. She was feeble and helpless. By her side, gazing sadly upon her, was her companion, pale and haggard, and apparently conquered in spirit. The sufferings of the frail being by his side seemed to pierce him to the soul. He felt not for himself; his thoughts, his feelings, all were devoted to her, whom he had loved and respected through many vicissitudes, whose kindly sympathy had cheered his heart in many of the severest of earth's trials. They had passed through peril and poverty together, and now the cup of tribulation seemed full to the brim. They were doomed to death,—not to the death of the malefactor, but as victims of private interest. No friendly jailer had been near, to bring them even a cup of cold water to assuage their consuming thirst. Not a morsel of food had they tasted since their incarceration! The terrible doom to which they were consigned was too apparent; there was nothing to foreshadow even the slightest hope of redemption. A few days' intercourse with their inhuman persecutor had demonstrated too plainly that he was equal to any crime which his own safety demanded.

The female turned uneasily upon her rude and filthy bed. Her companion bent over her, and, as a flood of tears poured from his sunken eyes, he imprinted a kiss upon her pale cheek.

"Do you feel no better, Delia?" asked he, tenderly.

"Alas, no! The sands of life are fast ebbing out. O, for a single drop of cold water!"

"God in heaven! must I see her die, with no power to save?" exclaimed Dalhousie,—for it was he,—striking his hands violently upon his forehead.

"Do not let me distress you, Francois! Let me die!—I am ready to die," said she, faintly.

Dalhousie could make no reply. His emotions were too powerful to permit his utterance. Maddened by despair, into which the terrible situation of his cherished wife had plunged him, he paced the jail with long strides, gazing about him, as if to seek some desperate remedy for his woes. Escape had scarcely presented itself to his mind. He had not the energy of character which rises superior to every ill, and had bent himself supinely to the fate which awaited him. To work through the solid walls of the jail seemed to him an impossibility, even if provided with the necessary implements. The scheme was too vast for his mind, unaccustomed, as it was, to contend with great difficulties.

Despair seemed to create, at this moment, a new man within him, armed with energy to break through every obstacle which might oppose him. His feeble, suffering companion demanded an effort for her relief, and such a demand even his supine nature could not resist.

Near one side of the jail was a shallow pit, which had, apparently, been quite recently excavated. In it lay the shovel with which the earth had been thrown out.

Dalhousie fixed his eyes upon the pit. A new thought animated him. "I began to dig that pit for gold; I will continue it for water," muttered he, as he seized the shovel, and commenced digging. Awhile he labored with the energy of desperation; but, enfeebled by long fasting, and unused to such severe toil, he soon felt his strength give way. It appeared to be his only hope, the only ministration of comfort to the loved one beside him, and he strove manfully against the weakness which beset him. An hour he labored; but not a drop of moisture rewarded his toil. Overcome by his exertions, he seated himself upon the brink of the pit, and gave way to the agonizing emotions which filled his soul. A sigh from his wife roused him to a new effort, and, partially invigorated by the few moments' rest, he again applied himself to his task. The ground was of a moist character, and he had every encouragement of soon finding the coveted treasure. Animated by this hope, he redoubled his efforts, and for another hour despair nerved his arm, and strengthened his sinking frame. Still the buried treasure eluded his search. Exhausted by his exertions, he sunk heavily upon the side of the pit, and the big tears coursed down his hollow cheeks. Deserted by man, he felt that there was no God in heaven; and no divinely-born sentiment came to cheer him in the hour of his despondency. He felt that the hand of death must soon take him and his loved wife into its cold embrace. With much effort he drew himself to her side, and endeavored to compose his mind for the struggle with the destroyer.

Two hours he lay by her side; but his time had not yet come. Rested from the severe fatigue he had undergone, he felt a new vigor stealing through his frame. Something like hope again flitted before his desponding mind, and, partially raising himself from his recumbent posture, he gazed about the apartment. The pit he had dug was yawning near him. A shudder convulsed his frame, as it reminded him of the open grave that gaped to receive him. Had he not dug this grave for himself?

The instinct of self-preservation drew him to his feet. Seizing the shovel, he advanced to the pit, when, to his unspeakable delight, he perceived that the bottom of it was covered with black, dirty water. The sight roused his dormant energies, and he saw before him years of life and happiness. Leaping into the pit, he drank from the putrid pool, using the palms of his hands for a drinking vessel.

Tearing off the top of his glazed cap, he succeeded in making a very tolerable cup of it, with which he conveyed some of the precious liquid to the parched lips of his sinking wife. The act roused her from the absent mood to which she had abandoned herself. She took a long draught of the discolored beverage, and, had it been the pure mountain spring, its effect could scarcely have been more magical. It not only refreshed the body, but inspired the mind. With this dawning hope the poor prisoners built the flimsy fabric of future joy and safety.

Dalhousie had lived years in the hours of his confinement. Experience, the stern mentor of humanity, had ministered to him, and imparted the strength and resolution which often require years to mature. Thoughts, and feelings, and energies, to which he had before been a stranger, came bounding through his mind, as the mighty river, which, having broken away the feeble barrier man had set in its course, roars and thunders down its before forsaken path. The powerful impulse of hope, stimulated by this successful act, made him curse his supineness in calmly yielding to the awful fate which awaited him. His best hours—his hours of unimpaired strength—had now passed away; there was no fountain at which he could renew it. But energy now burned within him, and, like an invisible power, seemed to drive him on to some great act. The impulse was irresistible; hopeless as his case had before appeared, he determined to escape. But how? This question had not yet presented itself. Escape from the jail!—from death!—himself,—more than himself, his wife! Stone walls lost their appalling firmness, and were no more than downy masses, which his breath could blow away.

Animated by this irresistible impulse, he took the shovel, and sounded upon the walls; but they were everywhere firm and solid beneath his blow. It seemed useless to his usually inert mind, and he was about to abandon himself again to the jaws of despair, when a new thought suggested itself. Fired with the inspiration of the new idea, he impulsively proceeded to carry it into execution. By the side of the wall, with vigorous strokes, he commenced digging, with the intention of undermining it. Without a thought of his enfeebled body, he plied the shovel with the energy of desperation. Instead of making a calm calculation, and proceeding with such an economy of strength as would enable him to complete the work, he labored as though the task before him could be easily and quickly accomplished.

His wife, somewhat revived by the draught she had taken, penetrated the purpose of her husband; but she saw that his strength must entirely fail him ere the work could be accomplished.

"You must husband your strength, Francois," said she; "rest a little."

"The hope of deliverance is too strong to let me sacrifice another moment in idleness," replied Dalhousie, without ceasing from his labors.

"But, Francois, you will kill yourself, if you work so hard."

"That would be an honorable death, at least."

"And leave me to linger here?—No, let us die together, if die we must. Perhaps I can help you,"—and she strove to rise.

"Do not rise, Delia,—keep quiet; I am strong, and will yet deliver you from this dungeon. Lay quiet, dear; do not add to my distress."

"I fear I must lay still,—I cannot rise," said she, sinking back with the exhaustion of the effort.

Dalhousie threw down his shovel, and hastened to her side.

"Do not attempt to rise again, dear," said he. "Let me get you some more water."

He again filled the rude cup at the pit, and, after she had taken a long draught of it, he laved her head, an operation which appeared to refresh her.

"Do you feel better?"

"Much better."

"Now keep perfectly quiet, and I will resume my task."

"I will; but pray, Francois, do not work so hard; temper your enthusiasm with reason. You cannot succeed, unless you are careful."

"I will, dear; I will rest every little while."

Dalhousie resumed his labor, and, convinced by his wife's reasoning, he labored more moderately. While he toils at this apparently hopelessly task, we will return to the night when we left him in the library, after having obtained possession of the secret packet.

The overseer, after leaving the library, was perplexed to determine his future course. He was in possession of a mighty secret, a secret which involved his employer's very existence. The realization of a thousand golden dreams was at hand, and he was resolved, without an over-nice balancing of conscientious scruples, to make the most of the information he had obtained. There were two methods of procedure open to him, and his perplexity was occasioned by this fact. In this instance his resolution was not at fault, for the reins were in his own hands. It was not like hewing a path through the granite barriers of difficulty, against the very frown of destiny. He imagined that some overruling power had made the path, and invited him to walk in it.

Should he make his fortune by means of the uncle or the niece? The question of his existence had narrowed itself down to this point. It was sure, he felt, from one or the other.

Being of a naturally generous disposition, with strong affections, and having not a little of the natural sense of justice in his composition, he was decidedly in favor of permitting the niece to enrich him. This was his personal preference; but he was sensible of the truth of the axiom, that individual preferences must sometimes be sacrificed to the success of the main object; and, if the circumstances demanded it, he felt able to make the sacrifice.

If he forwarded the packet to its proper destination, the lady would, without doubt, be soon restored to her possessions. This was the course he preferred, as well as the course which justice and morality demanded. But, alas! his moral sentiment was not sufficiently developed to make him pause before taking the opposite course, if his present and temporary interest should seem to demand it. A departure from the strict injunction of conscience is sure to bring misery; and this was doubly true in his case.

The uncle was in actual possession, and he called to mind the old maxim, that "possession is nine points in the law." He was unwilling to risk the bright prospects, which had so suddenly opened upon him, on the tenth point. Fearing that Jaspar's unscrupulous character would enable him to defeat the heiress, he had not the courage to do his duty and trust Heaven for the reward.

With this view of his position, he reluctantly—we will do him the justice to say reluctantly—abandoned the project of restoring the niece to her birthright. Thus was the great purpose of his life narrowed down to one point, and he retired to his pillow to consider in what manner he should approach Jaspar.

Simple as this single point had before appeared, he found, on reflection, that it was environed with difficulties and dangers. Jaspar was intrenched in his own castle, and it would require some address even to approach near enough to hold a parley. Conclusive as were the evidences in his possession of Jaspar's perfidy, they might, by the aid of cunning and gold, be made to appear as forgeries, gotten up for the purpose of extorting money. The stake was a great one, and he determined with a bold hand to play the game.



CHAPTER XXV.

"Cassius. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. —You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus!" SHAKSPEARE.

Jaspar Dumont, on the morning after the abstraction of the papers by Dalhousie, rose from his inebriated slumbers; but his rest was a misnomer. The strong excitement, which a few weeks before had served to keep his mind occupied, had now passed away. His villany was accomplished; but it had not purchased the satisfaction he coveted—it had cost too much sacrifice of soul. Brandy was his only solace; and even this only conjured up demons of torture in his fevered imagination.

He was conscious that on the previous night he had drank too much. There seemed to be a chasm in his recollection which all his efforts could not fill. He might, while in a measure unconscious of his actions, have betrayed some of his momentous secrets. The overseer, of whose presence he had an indistinct remembrance, might have obtained some further clue to the great mystery. These were annoying reflections, and while he resolved to be more temperate in future, how fervently he adjured his patron demon to ward off any danger he might have courted in his inebriation!

After his accustomed ride through the cane-fields, he retired to the library. The decanter had been replenished with brandy, and his late resolutions did not deter him from freely imbibing of its contents. The equilibrium was restored. His mind, stimulated by the fumes of the liquor, resumed its usual buoyancy. He paced the room, and drank frequent draughts of the fiery beverage.

Suddenly he stopped in his perambulation, as a faint recollection of the lost key came to his mind. He searched his pockets; but it could not be found. The drawer was locked. Suspicious as he was fearful, he trembled lest in his oblivious moments he had compromised his secret. He sent for the overseer, determined to know and provide for the worst.

After the messenger left, his reflections assumed a new direction. He tried to laugh away his suspicions, applied epithets to himself which it would not have been safe for another to have applied, and in good round oaths cursed his own stupidity. In his privacy he was a pattern of candor, and bestowed upon himself such a rating as, to another, would have given fair promise of good results.

He satisfied himself that the drawer could contain nothing to implicate him; and, even if it did, why, he was safe enough in the hands of Dalhousie. The overseer he regarded as a kind of thing, who, while he retained him in his service, would never injure him. Jaspar, for some reason or other, had formed no very elevated opinion of Dalhousie's acuteness. He had bought him off cheaply once, and could do so again. If he refused to be bought off cheaply,—and Jaspar grated his teeth at the reflection,—why, a method could be devised to get rid of him.

While engaged in these musings, a knock at the door startled him to his feet. It was not the overseer's knock.

A servant announced a strange gentleman, who declined to give his name.

"Show him in," said Jaspar, re-seating himself, and striving to assume a tranquillity which did not pervade his mind. Since the consummation of his base scheme he had been a prey to nervous starts, and the announcement of a stranger stirred the blood in its channels, and sent his heart into his throat. This nervous excitement had been increasing upon him every day, and his devotion to the bottle by no means tended to allay it. Such are the consequences of guilt. If the victim, before he yields to temptation, could anticipate the terrible state of suspense into which his guilt would plunge him,—if he could see only a faint reflection of himself, starting at every sound in nervous terror, as before the appearance of some grim spirit of darkness,—he would never have the courage to commit a crime.

The stranger entered the library. It was De Guy. At his appearance Jaspar's fears gave way to a most uncontrollable fit of passion.

"Villain!" exclaimed he, "how dare you enter my house, after what has passed?"

"Gently, my dear sir! You forget that we have been friends, and that our mutual safety requires us to remain so still," said De Guy, in his silky tone and compromising manner.

Jaspar compressed his lips, and grated his teeth, while a smothered oath escaped him. But his rage soon found a more audible expression.

"Friends!" By ——, I should think we had been friends!" said he, fiercely.

"Certainly, my dear sir,—friends."

"Then save me from my friends!"

"Better say your enemies! I fear you have a great many."

"Save me from both! May I ask to what fortunate circumstance I am indebted for the honor of this visit?" said Jaspar, sarcastically mimicking the silky tones, of the attorney.

"I came to forward our mutual interest."

"Then, by ——, you can take yourself off! You and I will part company."

"Indeed, sir, this is ungenerous, after I have assisted you into your present position, to treat me in this manner," replied the attorney, smilingly shaking his head.

"I am not indebted to you for my life, or my position! You have been a traitor, sir!—a traitor! and, tear out my heart, but I will swing, before I have anything further to do with you!" roared Jaspar, with compound emphasis, as he rose from his chair, and advanced to the brandy-bottle.

"Gently, Mr. Dumont, gently! Do not get into a passion! May I ask what you mean by traitor? Have I not served you faithfully?" interrogated the attorney, with a smile of assurance.

"Served me faithfully!" sneered Jaspar. "You served me a cursed shabby trick above Baton Rouge, at the wood-yard."

"My dear sir, you wrong me! I did not injure you bodily, I trust?"

"No, sir! You have not that satisfaction."

"I rejoice to hear it. All that I did was for your benefit," returned the attorney, complacently.

"Do you take me for an idiot?"

"By no means! You have shown your shrewdness too often to permit such a supposition."

"What do you mean, then?" said Jaspar, a little mollified, in spite of himself, by the conciliatory assurance of De Guy.

"Simply that your interest demanded your absence. I had not the time, then, to convince you of the fact; and, I trust, you will pardon the little subterfuge I adopted to promote your own views."

Jaspar opened his eyes, and fixed them in a broad stare upon big companion.

"Explain yourself," said he.

"Everything has come out right,—has it not?"

"Yes."

"You are in quiet possession?"

"Yes."

"Then, sir, you may thank me for that little plan of mine at the wood-yard. If I had not prevented you from continuing your journey, all your hopes would have been blasted."

"I do not understand you."

"Where is your niece now?" asked the attorney, as a shade of anxiety beclouded his brow.

"She was lost in the explosion," replied Jaspar, with a calmness with which few persons can speak of the loss of near friends.

The attorney was particularly glad at this particular moment to ascertain that this, as he had before suspected, was Jaspar's belief, and that this belief had lulled him into security. He was not, however, so candid as to give expression to his sentiments on the subject.

"Precisely so!" exclaimed the attorney, as though no shade of doubt or anxiety had crossed him. "The Chalmetta exploded her boiler."

"Well!"

"Both Miss Dumont and her troublesome lover were lost,—were they not?"

"Yes."

"And, if you had continued on board, you would probably have shared their fate."

"Yes; but do you mean to say you blowed the steamer up? asked Jaspar, with a sneer.

"Exactly so!"

"Fool! do you expect me to believe such a miserable rigmarole as this?"

"I hope you will, for it is strictly true," returned the attorney, convincingly.

Jaspar looked incredulous, and resorted to the brandy-bottle, which seemed to bear the same relation to him that the oracle of Delphi did to the ancient Greeks.

"You do not think me capable of inventing such a story, I trust," said De Guy, seriously.

"Ha! ha! ha! you have joined the church, haven't you, since we met last?"

"I see, sir, you think, because I assisted you in your plans, that I have no honor, no conscience, no humanity. Why, sir, what I have done for you was only a duty which my religion demanded of me."

"Your creed must be an original one!" replied Jaspar, with a sickly laugh.

"It is an original one. You thought yourself better entitled to your brother's property than this giddy girl. So did I; and it was my duty to see justice done. A matter of conscience with me, upon my honor."

"Enough of this!" said Jaspar, sternly, for a joke soon grew stale with him.

"Be it so; but remember the story is true."

"And you did me the favor to blow up the steamer!" sneered Jaspar.

"At the risk of my own life, I did. I bribed the firemen to crowd on the steam, and the engineers to keep down the safety-valve,—all under the excitement of a race, though with special reference to your interest."

"Was this part of your creed, too?"

"Certainly," and the attorney launched out into a dissertation of theology and kindred topics, with which we will not trouble the reader.

Jaspar heard it not, for he was busy in considerations of a less metaphysical character. He was thinking of his present position, and of the overseer, whose step he heard on the veranda.

"I see," said he, interrupting De Guy, "you have been my friend."

This remark was the result of his deliberations. He might need the services of the attorney.

"I expect my overseer on business in a moment," continued he, "and I should like to see you again, after he has gone. May I trouble you to step into this room for a few moments?"

"Certainly," replied De Guy, who was congratulating himself on his success in conciliating the "bear of Bellevue," as he styled him among his boon companions.

Jaspar closed the door upon the attorney, and was in the act of lighting a cigar, when Dalhousie entered. The overseer endeavored to discover in the countenance of his employer some indications of his motive in sending for him; but Jaspar maintained a perfect indifference, which defeated his object, Neither spoke for several moments; but at last the overseer, embarrassed by the silence, said,

"You sent for me, Mr. Dumont?"

"I did," said Jaspar, suddenly, as though the words had roused him from his profound abstraction; "I did; one of my keys is missing, so that I cannot open the drawer. You arranged its contents, I believe."

"Yes," said Dalhousie, flustered, for he was not so deeply skilled in the arts of deception as to carry them on without some compunction; "but I left the key in the drawer."

"You see It is not there," said Jaspar, fixing his sharp gray eye upon the overseer.

"It is not," said Dalhousie, advancing to the secretary. "Probably it has fallen upon the floor—" and he stooped down to look for it.

Jaspar watched him in silence, as he felt about the floor. The overseer was in no haste to find it, though his eyes were fixed on it all the time.

"Didn't you put it into your pocket, by mistake?" suggested Jaspar.

"Certainly not," replied Dalhousie; "here it is;" and, picking up the key, he handed it to Jaspar. "I was certain I left it here."

Jaspar felt much relieved.

"Sorry to have troubled you," said he, "but I wanted a paper—" and he rose and opened the drawer, as if in quest of it.

"No trouble at all," returned the overseer. "Now that I am here, a few words with you would be particularly agreeable to me."

Jaspar's curiosity was instantly excited, and, forgetting the paper and De Guy, he requested him to proceed immediately with his business.

"It is a matter of much interest to both of us," continued Dalhousie, embarrassed by the difficulties of his position.

"Well, sir, go on," said Jaspar, impatiently, for the overseer's hesitation had rather a bad odor.

"I may as well speak bluntly and to the point," stammered Dalhousie, still reluctant to state his business.

"Why don't you? I am not a sentimental girl, that you need make a long preface to your oration."

"I will, sir. Every man is in duty bound to consider his own interest—"

"Certainly, by all means. Go on."

"In regard to your relations with your niece—" and Dalhousie paused again.

Jaspar's reddening face and the curl upon his lip indicated the volcano of passion which would soon burst within him.

"Proceed, sir," said he, struggling to be calm.

"In regard to your relations with your niece, you are aware that I am somewhat acquainted with them."

"I am; I hope you do not know too much for your own good. You know I am not to be trifled with."

"I am not concerned for my own safety," replied Dalhousie, a little stung by the implied threat of Jaspar; "but I wish to provide for your safety. I intend to go to France."

"I do not prevent you."

"I lack the means."

"And you wish me to furnish them?"

"I do."

"And how large a sum do you need?"

"A pretty round sum. I will keep entirely away from this part of the country, so that you need not fear me."

"Fear you!" sneered Jaspar, rising and draining a glass of brandy. "I fear no man, no devil, no angel!"

"Perhaps you are not aware that your reputation is in my hands."

"Not at all, sir," said Jaspar, coldly.

"Know, then, that I have a copy of the genuine will, and the means of attesting it!"

Jaspar was prepared for almost anything, but this was too much. He paced the room with redoubled energy. His bravado had vanished, and he was as near pale as his bloated visage could approach to that hue. He strode up and down the room in silence, while his heart beat the reveille of fear. For a time his wonted firmness forsook him, and he felt as weak as a child, and sunk back into a chair.

By degrees he grew calmer. The case was a desperate one. Again he swallowed a long draught of brandy, which seemed to reduce his nerves to a state of subjection. Gradually he rallied the dissipated powers of his mind, and was ready to meet the emergency before him.

Dalhousie, after making his appalling announcement, had thrown himself into a chair, to await the effect of his words. He seemed in no hurry to continue the subject. Thus far the effect warranted his most sanguine hopes of the realization of his great schemes.

Jaspar, after recovering some portion of his former calmness, said,

"May I ask how you obtained possession of the document?"

"That question, sir, I must decline answering."

"You will, at least, show me the paper?"

"That also I must decline."

Jaspar bit his lip.

"How shall I know, then, that you are not deceiving me?"

"I assure you that I have the document, and you must trust to my honor for the rest."

"Honor!" exclaimed Jaspar, giving way to his passion. "No one but a scoundrel ever talks of his honor! By ——, I only want to hear that word, to know that the man is a —— rascal!"

"Very well, sir, I shall be under the necessity of seeking out your niece."

"My niece!" roared Jaspar, terror-stricken. "Did you not see her buried at Vicksburg?"

"It might have been she, but it is scarcely possible."

"Hell!" shouted Jaspar, unable to govern his fury. With long strides he paced the room, his teeth grating like a madman's, and his eyes bloodshot and glaring like those of a demon. His fears seemed to arm him with desperate fury.

"Where is the ring?—the ring!" said he, stopping in front of the overseer. "Didn't you give me her ring?"

"I gave you a ring," said Dalhousie, calmly.

"Was it not her ring? Did it not have her initial, and her father's hair in it?" and Jaspar flew to the secretary, where he had deposited the evidence of his niece's supposed death.

"There is no longer any need of continuing the deception—"

"Deception! Here is the ring, and here is the letter D. Doesn't it stand for Dumont?"

"Not at all. It stands for Delia, my wife's name, in this instance."

"Your wife's name!" exclaimed Jaspar, striking his forehead furiously.

"It does, sir, and for her mother's name also, whose memory it was intended to commemorate."

Jaspar's emotions were so violent, that the overseer began to fear some fatal consequences might ensue.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Dumont. Do not let your passions overcome you. I have no intention of making an evil use of this information," said he, in a soothing tone.

This seemed to calm the violence of Jaspar's feelings, and with a strong effort he recovered his command of himself.

"My niece Is yet alive, is she?" said Jaspar, looking anxiously at the overseer.

"Perhaps not; but probably she is."

"And it was not she that was buried?"

"As to that, I cannot say; I never saw the lady alive."

"And what are your plans?" asked Jaspar, with a glance of doubt at the overseer.

"I will go to France, if you provide the means."

"Suppose I will not?"

"Perhaps your niece will."

"What if she is dead?"

"I can better tell when I know that she is dead."

"How much money do you require?"

"Twenty thousand."

"A large sum."

"From millions your niece would gladly give more."

"I will think of your proposition. Come in again in two hours, and you shall have my answer."

"Better give me an answer now."

"I wish to consider."

"You have only to choose between twenty thousand dollars and the whole fortune. With your means at command, much reflection is not needed."

"Show me the papers, and I will decide at once."

"No."

"Then I must consider whether your pretensions are well founded."

"I will not be over nice; but any attempt to play me false shall rest heavily on your own head."

"Honor!" said Jaspar, with something like a smile, but more like a sneer.

With compressed lips, and the scowl of a demon, Jaspar witnessed the departure of the overseer. His case looked desperate, and he felt something like the gloominess of despair. Dalhousie could be disposed of, but the niece!—the niece, if she yet lived, would be the destruction of all his avaricious schemes.

As usual when agitated, he paced the room; and, as he reflected upon the danger, and the desperate remedies which suggested themselves, his manner grew more and more demoniacal. He resolved to trust no man. This was a dark thought, and could proceed only from the darkest mind.

The twenty thousand dollars he could pay; but the man who had such a hold upon him would never be satisfied while a dollar remained. And revenge was sweet! No! Dalhousie must not be bought off! It was a feast to his mind to anticipate the torture of the overseer!

An exclamation of satisfaction escaped him, as he suddenly decided upon the means of torture. In imagination he could see before him the thing, who had dared to threaten him, lingering out the moments of a hated life in slow agony. The vision was one of pleasure, and he rubbed his hands with delight.

The means of accomplishing his dark purpose then came up for consideration, and in this connection he happened to think of De Guy. He must be the minister of his vengeance, and the herald of his future safety; and he summoned him again to his presence.



CHAPTER XXVI.

"Thou hast stepped in between me and my hopes, And ravished from me all my soul held dear." ROWE.

De Guy returned to the library at Jaspar's summons. The shrewd attorney at once perceived the conflict which agitated the mind of his patron. He had come to Bellevue with a purpose, and, as Jaspar's disturbed mind seemed to favor that purpose, he hailed it as an omen of success. But what had so agitated him? Jaspar was not a man to be depressed by any trivial circumstance.

The attorney did not have to wait long in suspense, for Jaspar related the particulars of his interview with Dalhousie, and mentioned the price he had named to insure his silence. It was now De Guy's turn to be disturbed. The purpose for which he had come was likely to be thwarted by this new aspirant for a share in the Dumont estates.

"What is to be done?" said Jaspar, in a tone which betrayed his deep anxiety.

"Get rid of him! His story is a fabrication," returned De Guy.

"Not entirely. He knows too much for our safety."

"So much the worse for him!"

"Why? What would you do?"

"Shut his mouth! It matters not how. You do not want to—" and the attorney drew his under lip beneath his upper teeth, and produced an explosive sound, very much like the crack of a pistol, or a champagne-cork, but which Jaspar did not mistake for the latter. "You do not want to—f-h-t—him, if you can help it."

"It would be the safest way," returned the other, not at all embarrassed by the attorney's ambiguous method of expressing himself.

"Perhaps not; though 'dead men tell no tales,' it is also true that 'murder will out.' Besides, I have conscientious scruples."

Jaspar sneered at this last remark; but the attorney was too useful an adviser at that moment to be lightly provoked, and he suppressed the angry exclamation which rose to his lips.

"How would the slave jail do?" said he, with a fiendish smile.

"Too public. Our object is to save the man's life,—an act of humanity; but we must not endanger our own safety."

"No mortal man can ever know that he is confined there. The jail was built under my own direction, and, owing to its peculiar construction, not even the hands on the estate will know that it is occupied. I always keep the keys myself."

"If you are satisfied, it is enough. But how can you get him in?"

"I can manage that, with your assistance," said Jaspar, who had already arranged every particular. "But his wife?"

"His wife! Has he a wife?"

"Ay; and one who, if I mistake not, will give us more trouble than the fellow himself."

"She must be caged with him."

"You say well, Mr. De Guy. But can you reconcile this advice with your dainty humanity?" said Jaspar, with a sneer.

"Certainly, I can! It were cruelty to separate man and wife, even in death. If I had a wife, I should be sorry to part with her under any circumstances."

Jaspar grinned a sickly smile.

"But the plan!" continued the attorney. "This loving couple will not willingly occupy your fancy apartment."

"Leave that to me. Go to the jail. Here are the keys. I will send them to you. When they are in, lock the doors!"

De Guy smiled.

"You do not understand me?"

The attorney confessed that he did not.

"Nevertheless, go to the jail, and wait their coming. Unlock the doors, and get out of sight. They will enter, like lambs."

Jaspar explained a little further, and the attorney took his departure to obey his instructions.

* * * * *

At the time appointed, Dalhousie returned to receive Jaspar's reply.

"You are punctual," said the latter.

"I am," replied Dalhousie, cavalierly. "This business admits of no delay. Are you prepared to give me an answer?"

"Yes," returned Jaspar, endeavoring to assume a crestfallen air.

"Well, sir, do you accept my terms?"

"I do, on one condition."

"Name it."

"It is, that you sign this bond never again to land in America, and to preserve entire silence in regard to the information you have obtained;" and Jaspar read an instrument he had drawn up, to blind the eyes of the overseer.

"I agree to it."

"It is well. But a further difficulty presents itself. I have not so much money in the world. The estate, perhaps you know, consists mostly of real estate, stocks, negroes, &c. I have not five thousand dollars by me."

The overseer looked at Jaspar with a keen, contemptuous glance, as if to read any attempt on his part to dupe him; but the wily planter moved not a muscle.

"Then you cannot, if you would, consummate the bargain?" said he.

"I said not so," returned Jaspar. "I only remarked that a difficulty had presented itself."

"Pray explain yourself."

"The difficulty can be removed."

"Well, how? What new risk must I run?"

"No risk. To tell you all in a few words, I have the money in gold buried on the estate."

"That will suit me better. I prefer gold."

"It is buried three feet under ground, in the slave jail. I selected that place to bury it, because I could dig without attracting attention."

"It can easily be brought to light. An hour's work with the spade will unearth it."

"True; but I have not the strength to dig. Besides, I am engaged with a friend in the nest room."

Dalhousie accepted the excuse, for he had seen De Guy, as he was walking in the garden, half an hour before.

"I can dig it up myself. Show me the spot."

"Very well; but sign the bond first."

"Of course, if you keep not your faith with me, the bond is nothing," said Dalhousie, as he affixed his signature to the paper, which Jaspar folded carefully, and put in his pocket.

"Here are directions which will enable you to find it without the necessity of my attending you;" and he handed him a slip of paper, upon which were written minute directions to the supposed locality of the treasure.

"But, suppose," said Dalhousie, after he had read the directions, "while I am digging, you should close the doors upon me?"

"Honor!" said Jaspar, laying his hand upon the place where the heart belonged, with an amusing contortion of the facial muscles.

"I have not the highest confidence in your honor."

"Perhaps not; but I can suggest a better protection. Have you any person at hand upon whose faith you can rely?"

"None but my wife," replied Dalhousie, carelessly, for the mortifying fact seemed laden with nothing of bitterness.

"So much the better. She will be true. Station her at the door, and, if she sees me approach, you can be sure to be on the outside when I close the door."

Jaspar's air of sincerity did as much to assure him as the fitness of the plan suggested, and the overseer determined to adopt it.

Briefly he narrated to his wife—though with some variations and concealments, for he knew she would not endorse all his operations—the history of the affair, and the good fortune that awaited him; and requested her attendance at the jail, to stand sentry over the gloomy den, while he dug up the treasure.

De Guy's patience was nearly exhausted when the overseer and his wife made their appearance. He had only time to conceal himself in a cane-field, when the doomed couple reached the jail. Dalhousie walked twice round it, before he ventured to enter the building. Stationing his wife at the door, he proceeded to measure out the locality of the supposed treasure.

De Guy watched them. For half an hour he remained quiet, when the vigilance of the lady-sentinel began to abate, and, by the exercise of extreme caution, he succeeded in reaching, undiscovered, the rear of the jail. Cat-like, he crept to the corner, and listened. He could hear their conversation. Carefully he stole round to the corner nearest to the door. For an instant the wife had left her station, to observe the progress of her husband's labor. The time had come, and the attorney was not the man to let the favorable moment pass unimproved. With a rapidity which seemed utterly incompatible with his rotund corporation, he flew to the door, and sprung the trap upon the hapless pair, in the midst of their vision of wealth and happiness.

Carefully locking the doors of the dungeon, he walked back to the mansion as coolly as though he had only impounded his neighbor's cow. Entering the library, he found Jaspar impatiently waiting his return.

"Are they safe?" said he.

"As safe as your jail-walls can make them. Your plan was a clumsy one, but I forced it to succeed."

"Did they not enter without scruple?"

"Yes, but the sentinel."

"Pshaw! did you not know she would desert her post? If she saw not danger, she would fear none in the day-time,—it is woman-like."

"Not always; but it matters not; they are safe. Now to business."

"Business!" exclaimed Jaspar, with a start, and a wild stare at the attorney. "The business is done."

"Not all of it. There are other enemies in the field."

"What mean you?" said Jaspar, alarmed. "Are we not safe yet?"

"Not quite," replied the smooth attorney, with a quiet smile. "The game you played was a deep one, and you must needs persevere to the end."

"Explain yourself, man; don't trifle with me," said Jaspar, roused by the smooth smile of the attorney; for that smile seemed to him full of meaning.

"All in good time, my dear sir. Let me beg of you not to be discomposed by anything I may say to you."

Jaspar sneered, but ventured no reply.

"I have served you faithfully, you must acknowledge."

"I will acknowledge nothing," said Jaspar, testily.

"The steamer exploded, you remember," returned De Guy, with an expression of sly humor, which Jaspar did not appreciate.

"I do remember it, by Heaven! But this villanous Dalhousie says my niece was not known to have been killed."

"Exactly so."

"Sir! Do you mean to say that you know she was not lost?"

"Precisely so."

"By ——! Sir, you have been making a merit of this very thing."

"True, but policy, policy! You will recollect you were not in a particularly amiable mood when I had the honor to introduce myself this morning. It was necessary to conciliate you, and my plan succeeded admirably. Besides, I blowed up the steamer with the intention of serving you, and I ought to have the credit of my good intentions!"

"And a pretty mess you have made of it!"

"Did the best that could be done, under the circumstances."

"The game is up! I may as well hang myself, at once."

"The very worst thing you could possibly do. A long life of happiness and usefulness is yet before you, provided you follow my advice."

"Your advice!" sneered Jaspar.

"I shall have the pleasure of convincing you that my advice will be the best that could possibly be given to a man in your condition."

"The girl is alive, is she?" muttered Jaspar, heedless of the smooth words of his companion.

"Alive and well; and, moreover, is close at hand."

"The devil, she is! And you have been dallying around me all day without opening your mouth."

"But remember, sir, you had another affair on your hands."

"What avail to get that miserable overseer out of the way, when the girl herself is at hand?"

"One thing at a time. That excellent old man, Dr. Franklin, always advised this method. The overseer is safe; now turn we to other matters."

"Well, what shall be done?" said Jaspar, rising suddenly and paying his devoir to the brandy-bottle.

"I will tell you," replied the attorney, rising from his chair and coolly imitating Jaspar's example at the bottle. Then throwing himself lazily upon the sofa—"I will tell you. The case is not desperate yet. How much is the amount of the old colonel's property?"

"How, sir! What mean you?"

"Favor me with an answer," replied the attorney, with admirable sang-froid, as he drew from his pocket a cigar-case, and, taking therefrom a cigar, proceeded to light it with a patent vesuvian. Politely tendering the case to Jaspar, who rudely declined the courtesy, he continued, "It is necessary to our further progress that I have this information."

"Well, perhaps he was worth four or five hundred thousand. What then?" replied Jaspar, doggedly.

"No more? Surely, you forget. His city property was worth more than double that sum."

"No more, by Heavens!" said Jaspar.

"Then, my dear sir, I fear you are a ruined man."

"Sir!" and Jaspar started bolt upright.

"See if you cannot think of something more," said De Guy, calmly.

"He might possibly have left more."

"Haven't you the schedule? Pray allow me to look at it;" and the attorney rose and approached the secretary. With the ease of one perfectly at home, and acquainted with every locality, he opened the drawer which contained the business papers of the estate.

"What are you about, sir? You are impudent!"

"Not at all, sir. I wish to satisfy myself that the property is worth more,"—and he commenced fumbling over the contents of the drawer.

"Take your hands out of that drawer, or I will blow your brains out!" said Jaspar, fiercely, as he seized a pistol from the table.

"Very well," replied the attorney, closing the drawer; "you shall have it as you will. I shall bid you a good-day,"—and he prepared to depart.

"Stay!" said Jaspar, replacing the pistol; "perhaps I can satisfy you, though I cannot see what bearing it has upon the subject."

"A very decided bearing, I should say," replied the attorney, not at all disconcerted by what had happened.

"Perhaps if I had said a million, it were nearer the truth."

"Not a bit. You are still half a million out of the way, at least. Is it not a million and a half?"

"It may be," said Jaspar, hesitating.

"Perhaps two millions."

"No," said Jaspar, decidedly.

"I suspected two was about the figure, but we will call it a million and a half."

"Well, what then?" said Jaspar, impatiently.

"One-half of it would be a very pretty fortune," soliloquized De Guy, loud enough to be heard by his companion.

"No doubt of it," replied Jaspar, with a ghastly smile, which betrayed but little of the terrible agitation that racked him, as he heard these words.

"But, Mr. Dumont, you are not a married man, you know, and one-third of it would be very handsome for you."

"Very comfortable, indeed; and, no doubt, I ought to be very grateful to you for allowing me so much."

"Exactly so. Gratitude is a sentiment worthy of cherishing. The fact is, Mr. Dumont, I intend to marry; and, for a man of my expensive habits, one-half is hardly an adequate share. You are a single man, and not likely to change your condition at present, so that you can have no possible use, either for yourself or for your heirs, for any more than one-third."

"Your calculations are excellent!" said Jaspar, with a withering sneer. "But suppose I should grumble at your taking the lion's share?"

"O, but, my dear sir, you will not grumble! Your sense of justice will enable you to perceive the equity of this division."

"Enough of this! I am in no humor for jesting," said Jaspar, with a frown.

"Jesting!" exclaimed the attorney, with a well-made gesture of astonishment; "I was never more in earnest in my life."

"May I be allowed to inquire the name of your intended bride?" sneered Jaspar.

"A very proper question; and, considering our intimate friendship, a very natural one. Although my intention is a profound secret, and one I should not like to have go abroad at present, especially as her nearest of kin might possibly object, still I shall venture to inform you, since you are to have the honor of providing the means of carrying my matrimonial designs into effect."

"I am certainly under obligations for your favorable consideration. But the lady's name?"

"Miss Emily Dumont! a beautiful creature—high-spirited—every way worthy—"

"Damnation! this is too much," growled Jaspar, fiercely, as he seized the pistol which lay near him, and levelled it at De Guy. "You cursed villain! You and I must cry quits!"

"Do not miss your aim!" coolly returned the attorney, drawing from his pocket a revolver. "Miss not your aim, or the fortune is all mine."

Jaspar was overcome by the coolness of De Guy, and, throwing down the pistol, he sank back into his chair, overpowered by the violence of his emotions.

"De Guy!" said he; "fiend! devil! you were born to torment me. There is no hotter hell than thine! Do thy work. I must bear all,"—and Jaspar felt that he was sold to the fiend before him.

"My dear sir, do not distress yourself," replied the attorney, resuming his supercilious manner, which he had laid aside in the moment of peril. "I offer you the means of safety. You will escape all the dangers that lower over you by my plan, which, I am glad to see, you perfectly understand."

"And lose the price for which I sold my soul? Even Judas had his forty pieces of silver—the more fool he, to throw them away! I could not do this thing, if I would. My soul is bound to my money."

"Pshaw! do not let avarice be your besetting sin. It is a vice too mean for your noble nature."

Jaspar tried to sneer again, but the muscles refused to perform their office. He stood like a convicted demon before his sulphurous master.

"It must be done," said De Guy; "there is no other way."

Jaspar heard the words, and struggled to avoid the conclusion towards which they pointed. The demon bade him yield, and the command was imperative. He could not resist—his will was gone.

"What are the details of your plan?" gasped he, faintly.

"Marry the lady, and take up my abode in this mansion," replied the attorney, promptly.

"And turn me out of doors! Well, be it so. I must do as you will."

"Nay, nay, my dear sir; you wrong me. You shall still be the honored inmate of our dwelling,—the affectionate uncle of your Emily, as of old," said the attorney, with infinite good humor.

Jaspar had well-nigh recovered his self-possession under the stroke of this, to him, severe satire; but De Guy gave him no time.

"We must proceed in some haste," continued the attorney, seizing a pen, and writing as he spoke. "My time is short, and I have already been somewhat lavish of it. Here, sign this paper; it is your consent to my union with your niece. Call some one to witness it."

Jaspar signed the certificate, without reading it. A witness was called, and the paper in due form was deposited in De Guy's pocket.

"Now, sir, the lady is not altogether willing to consent to this arrangement; but you must persuade her, and, if need be, compel her, to consent. She will be here in a few days. After the marriage, it will only remain for me to make over to you one-third of the property, which, as her husband, I can then legally do. Be firm, and behave like a man, and your troubles are ended. Everything will be hushed up, and you can spend the evening of your days in peace and quiet. I bid you good-day."

The attorney formally and politely ushered himself out of the library, and took his departure for New Orleans.



CHAPTER XXVII.

"Jaffier, you're free; but these must wait for judgment."

OTWAY.

We left Dalhousie engaged in the seemingly hopeless task of undermining the wall of the slave jail, at which he labored for several hours, resting at intervals, as his exhausted frame demanded. The prospect of realizing his hope encouraged him, and lent an artificial strength to his arm. He had already excavated a pit several feet in depth, but had not reached the bottom of the foundation wall. The quantity of earth piled upon the brink of the pit required extra exertion to remove it, but he toiled on with the energy of despair.

After laboring several hours more, he discovered, to his great joy, the bottom of the foundation. Again he plied the spade, and, by almost superhuman exertions, he succeeded in excavating a hole under the stones, which, below the surface of the ground, were not laid in mortar. After loosening all the small stones around a larger one, he found that he could pry it out, which, with much labor, he accomplished. The removal of the other stones was comparatively an easy task, and a little time sufficed to clear a space up to the solid masonry.

But here a new difficulty presented itself. The hole he had dug was already half filled with the stones he had tumbled from their positions. His strength was not sufficient to remove them, and he was compelled to dig again, in order to prosecute his labors.

The wall removed, he commenced digging outside of the foundation wall. Patiently he dug down to obtain sufficient room for the deposit of earth from the outside. Slowly and laboriously he undermined the ground, till the surface above him caved in, and—joy to his panting soul!—the air, the pure air of heaven, rushed in through the aperture! Hastily enlarging the cavity, and removing the earth to the inside, he ascended to the surface of the ground. A feeling of gratitude thrilled through his frame, as he once more inhaled the free air of heaven, that he had escaped the terrible fate which a few hours before had seemed inevitable.

With faltering step,—for now that his Herculean task was accomplished, the reality of his weakened physical condition was painfully apparent,—he walked round the jail, to satisfy himself that no one was in the vicinity. The sun was set, and the shades of night were gathering upon the earth. The time was favorable for his escape. Having satisfied himself that he was unobserved, he hastened to the garden, which was close at hand, to procure the means of invigorating his own body, and restoring to life and animation the partner of his captivity. Fruit of various kinds—melons, figs—rewarded his anxious search. Filling his handkerchief with cantelopes and figs, he hastened back to the jail, with all the speed his weary limbs would permit. His thoughts were fixed upon his wife, whose suffering had pierced his soul more deeply than all the anxiety and doubt he had experienced on his own account. As he tottered along, he asked himself if he should eat of the fruit he carried ere she had tasted of the banquet. He drew one of the rosy-cheeked, juicy figs from the handkerchief. It was no loss of time—no deferring of the succor she needed—to eat as he walked; run he could not, though he fain would have quickened his tardy pace. It would restore his strength, and enable him the better to protect and rescue her. It was not wrong, though, from the deep well of his affection, came up something like a reproach for his selfishness. He ate the fruit. The effect was, or seemed to be, magical. He thought he could feel it imparting strength to his exhausted form. Again he ate, and in the pleasant sensation to his unsated palate, his imagination, as much as the fruit, nerved his muscles, and he walked with a firmer step.

He had not completed one-half the distance back, when he discovered two men in the vicinity of the jail. A cold shudder nearly paralyzed him. Was his labor all in vain? Had he with so much trial and suffering effected his escape, only to be incarcerated again? The thought was maddening, and he resolved to die rather than be returned to the dungeon.

Drawing a revolver from his pocket, with which he had prudently prepared himself before his interview with Jaspar, he proceeded on his way.

On a nearer approach, the men appeared to be strangers to him. They might, however, be in the employ of Jaspar. They might be engaged in watching over his captivity.

He approached nearer. He had never seen either of them before. They did not look like men whom Jaspar would have been likely to select for such a purpose as he apprehended. Still, he took the precaution to examine the caps upon his pistol, and have his bowie-knife in a convenient place for immediate use.

Dalhousie was the first to speak.

"Your business here?" demanded he, regardless of the courtesy to which he had been all his life accustomed.

"The fact on 'tis," replied one of the strangers, a little startled by the rude manner of Dalhousie, "the fact on 'tis, we are lookin' arter the mansion of a Mr. Dumont. Perhaps you will oblige us by tellin' us which way to go."

"He lives in yonder house," replied Dalhousie, pointing it out.

The simplicity of the speaker dissipated his apprehensions, and his curiosity was excited.

"You know him, do you?" continued he.

"Well, no—I can't say I do."

"But you have business with him?"

"Not particularly with him,—the Lord forbid!" replied the stranger, devoutly.

"Devil a bit with him, at all," added his companion.

"Since no one else resides under the same roof with him, may I ask the reason of your visit there, if I am not too bold?" said Dalhousie.

"Sure, it's only to see the counthry, about here, we've come," replied the Irish stranger.

"No, Partrick, you know that is not the truth. Never tell a lie for anything, Partrick. Our business an't with him, but it consarns him. We don't care about mentioning it to everybody."

"I do not mean to be impertinent," said Dalhousie; "but perhaps I may be able to serve you. The man you seek is a villain!"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan,—for we presume it is unnecessary to tell the reader that it was he,—"I know that."

"Indeed, then you have some knowledge of him?"

"Sartain! but do you know a minister in these parts by the name of Faxon?"

"I do; he lives close by."

"Do you belong in this part of this country, Mister?" asked Uncle Nathan, who seemed to make the question a prelude to other inquiries.

"I do. But I must leave you now. I am the bearer of life to one whom I love dearer than myself. I have been foully wronged by the man you visit."

"Heavens and airth! you don't say so?" exclaimed Uncle Nathan.

"Doomed to a death by starvation, with my wife, in yonder jail, by his malice, I have just effected my escape. My wife is nearly dead, but I hope to restore her with these fruits."

"Good Heavens! who would have thought there was such a monster upon the airth?"

"By the powers!" ejaculated Pat Fegan.

"Can't we help you?" asked Uncle Nathan.

"Perhaps you can. I thank you, and, if it is not too late, she also will thank you. My strength is nearly gone."

Dalhousie, followed by Uncle Nathan and Pat Fegan, proceeded towards the jail, the former relating, as they went, the terrible incidents of their captivity, and the means by which he had effected their happy deliverance.

On the night of the explosion of the Chalmetta's boiler, Uncle Nathan and Pat Fegan had saved their lives by jumping overboard, and had been picked up by the Flatfoot. The true-hearted New Englander had made a diligent search for the parties who had intrusted the will in his keeping, but without success. He had been enabled to gain no tidings of any of them, and was now continuing his search to the mansion of the Dumont family.

The party reached the jail, and Dalhousie leaped into the pit, followed by his companions. The poor wife seemed to have no realization of the event which had set them free, and gazed with a wild stare upon her husband and those who accompanied him.

"We are safe, Delia! we are safe!" said Dalhousie, as he proceeded to untie the bundle of fruit.

"Safe! no, it cannot be—only a dream! But who are these persons?"

"They are friends, Delia—friends who have come to help me in saving you. Take one of these figs, dear. They will restore you."

"Figs!" replied Delia, with a vacant look.

"Yes, dearest; taste it,"—and he placed the fruit, which he had divested of its rind, to her lips.

The act seemed to restore her wandering mind to its equilibrium, and she painfully lifted herself on the pallet of straw, and took the fruit in her hand. She gazed upon it with a kind of silent rapture, while a faint smile rested upon her pallid lips.

"We are indeed safe, if you have found food,"—and she tasted the fig.

"Eat it all, dear; here are plenty more, and melons, too."

"Let me see you eat, Francois; it will do me more good than to eat myself. You have labored hard. Can we get out of this place? Are not these Mr. Dumont's friends? Have they come to fill up the pit you have dug?"

"No, dearest, they are our friends," said Dalhousie, pained by the wandering, wild state of her mind, and fearful that it might end in insanity. "We will leave this place as soon as you have eaten some of these figs and melons. I am almost restored by the joy of this moment, dearest; and you must strive to be of good cheer."

Dalhousie and his wife ate freely of the fruit, while Uncle Nathan and Pat gazed in silence upon the scene. But Delia was not so easily restored. Her mental and physical sufferings appeared to have given her constitution a shock from which it would take time to recover.

A conference took place between the parties, to decide upon the best means of removing the lady, who was utterly incapable of moving a step, and scarcely of lifting her form on her rude couch. Uncle Nathan was not long in devising a method; and, directing Pat to enlarge the aperture through which the captives were to escape, he went in search of some canes, with which to construct a litter. Pat applied himself vigorously to his task, tumbling over the huge stones like playthings, and handling the shovel with all that dexterity for which the Celtic race is so distinguished.

A rude litter was constructed, on which were laid the coats of the party, so as to render it as comfortable as possible to the sufferer. Uncle Nathan and Dalhousie, with much tenderness, though not without pain to the invalid, succeeded in getting her through the aperture into the open air, where she was placed upon the litter.

It was decided to carry her to the house of Mr. Faxon, upon whose active sympathies they relied for shelter and assistance; and they went with the more confidence, because Uncle Nathan had heard from Emily the interest he took in her affairs. The litter was borne by Uncle Nathan and Pat, while Dalhousie walked by its side, to cheer the heart of his wife by promises of future joy, which the uncertain future might never redeem.

Mr. Faxon received the party with scarcely an inquiry as to the nature of the misfortune which brought them to his door. There was a person in distress, and this was all his great, sympathetic heart needed to bid him open wide his doors.

Delia Dalhousie was placed upon a bed, a negro was despatched for a physician, and every effort used to alleviate her physical and mental sufferings.

After the wants of the sufferers had been supplied, Mr. Faxon listened with horror and indignation to the tale of Dalhousie's confinement, and the causes which led to it; for the overseer was so candid as to relate all, not even omitting the bribe he had agreed to take of Jaspar.

"It is thus, Mr. Dalhousie, that our plans are defeated, when they are unworthy," said he. "Let this be a lesson to you for the future. Never do or countenance a wrong action, and, whatever befalls you in this changing world, you will have an approving conscience to smile upon you, and lighten the darkest hour of adversity. But your tale brings me consolation. There is yet hope that Miss Dumont is alive. The cruel story of her death has darkened the abode of many a warm heart, even in spite of the reflection that she was a slave. She was a true woman, and I pray that God may spare her yet many years to bless the needy and the unfortunate."