CHAPTER XXXII.

THE END OF CLAUDIA'S PRIDE.

Is she saved by pangs that pained her? Is there comfort in all it cost her? Before the world had gained her, Before the Lord had lost her, Or her soul had quite disdained her?

For her soul—(and this is the worst To bear, as we well know)— Has been watching her from the first As closely as God could do, And herself her life has curst!

Talk of the flames of hell, We build, ourselves, I conceive, The fire the fiend lights.—Well! Believe or disbelieve, We know more than we tell. —Owen Meredith.



After a sleepless night, whose lonely anguish would have driven almost any woman who was compelled to endure it mad, Claudia arose and rung her bell.

No one answered it.

Too impatient to wait for the tardy attendance of her servants, Claudia thrust her feet into slippers, drew on her dressing-gown, and went and opened the window-shutters to let in the morning light. Then she rang again.

Still no one obeyed the summons.

She was not alarmed. Even with the knowledge of what had gone before, she felt no uneasiness. She went to the dressing glass and loosened her hair, and let it fall all over her shoulders to relieve her burning head. And then she bathed her face in cold water. She was impatient to make her toilet and leave the castle.

She knew that all was over with her worldly grandeur; that all her splendid dreams had vanished forever; that obscurity, perhaps deepened by degradation, was all that awaited her in the future.

Wounded, bruised, and bleeding as her heart was, she felt glad to go; glad to leave the abode of splendid discord, misery, and crime, for any quiet dwelling-place. For she was utterly worn out in body, mind, and spirit.

She no longer desired wealth, rank, admiration, or even love; she only longed for peace; prayed for peace.

She knew a turbulent future threatened her; but she feebly resolved to evade it. She knew that Lord Vincent would sue for a divorce from her; would drag her name before the world and make it a by-word of scorn in those very circles of fashion over which she had once hoped to reign; she would not oppose him, she thought; she had no energy left to meet the overwhelming mass of testimony with which he had prepared to crush her. If her father should come over and defend her cause—well and good. She would let him do it; but as for her, she would go away, and seek peace.

You see, Claudia was in a very different mood of mind from that of the night previous, which had inspired her with such royal dignity and heroic courage to withstand and awe her accusers.

There had come the natural reaction from high excitement, and feats which had appeared easy, in the hour of her exalted indignation, seemed now impossible. She could now no more go to the American minister, and tell him her story, and claim his assistance, than she could have run into a burning fire. But, thank Heaven, she could go from the castle.

She rang her bell a third time, and more sharply than before. After a few minutes it was answered by the housekeeper, who entered with her customary respectful courtesy.

"She has not heard of last night's scandal," thought Claudia, as she noticed the dame's unaltered manner.

"I have rung three times, Mrs. Murdock. Why has not my maid come up?" she inquired.

"Indeed, me leddy, I dinna ken. I ha' na seen the lass the morn," answered the woman.

"What! You do not mean to say that Sally has not made her appearance this morning?"

"Indeed and she ha' na, me leddy."

"Mrs. Murdock, pray go at once to her room and see if she is there."

The housekeeper went away; and after an absence of fifteen minutes returned to say that Sally was not in her room.

"But I dinna think she is far awa', me leddy; because her bed is all tumbled as if she was just out of it. And her shoes and clothes are lying there, just as she put them off."

"I will dress and go and make inquiries myself. This house is a place of mysterious disappearances. I wonder if the beach below is of quicksand, and does it swallow people up alive?"

"I dinna ken, me leddy," gravely answered the dame.

"Mrs. Murdock, can you help me to dress?"

"Surely, me leddy," said the housekeeper, approaching Claudia with so much respectful affection that the unhappy lady said once more to herself:

"She knows nothing of last night's work."

And then Claudia, who was much too high-spirited and sincere to receive attentions rendered by the dame in ignorance of that night's scandal which she might not have so kindly rendered had she known of them, said:

"Mrs. Murdock, do you know what happened last night?"

"Aye, surely, me leddy, I ken a' about it, if your leddyship means the fause witness o' that de'il Frisbie," said the housekeeper, growing red with emotion.

"It was a false witness! a base, wicked, infamous calumny! I think the more highly of you, Mrs. Murdock, for so quickly detecting this. And I thank you," said Claudia, with difficulty restraining the tears, which for the first time since her great wrong were ready to burst from her eyes.

"Ou, aye, me leddy! It did na require the Witch of Endor to see the truth of that business. Ye'll see I ken Laird Vincent and Frisbie and the player-quean, wha is worst o' a'! And I hanna served ye, me leddy, these twa months without keening yer ladyship as well. And sae I ken the differ, me leddy. I ken the differ—-"

"Oh, Mrs. Murdock, in this deep desolation I find some comfort in your faith in me!"

"And sae I dinna believe a word the fause knave Frisbie says. And neither does auld Cuthbert, honest man! But wae's me, me leddy, whate'er our convictions may be, we canna disprove the lees o' yon de'il."

"No, we cannot," said Claudia, with a sigh of despair; "and unless Providence intervenes to save me, I am lost."

"Aweel, me leddy, ye maun just hope that he will intervene. Na, na, dinna greet sae sairly!" the good woman entreated, for Claudia had burst into a flood of tears, and was weeping bitterly.

This refreshed her spirit and cleared her brain. Presently, wiping her eyes and looking up, she said:

"Mrs. Murdock, I cannot meet those wretches at breakfast. Send me some coffee; and order the carriage to be at the door in an hour; also send Sally, who must be at hand by this time, to help me pack."

The dame went on this errand, and after a short absence returned, bringing Claudia's breakfast on a tray.

"Where is Sally?" inquired Lady Vincent, as the housekeeper arranged the breakfast on a little table.

"She hanna come yet, me leddy," said the housekeeper, who remained and waited on Lady Vincent at breakfast.

Claudia could eat but little. To all her own sources of trouble was now added alarm, on account of Sally. What if the hapless girl had shared old Katie's fate? was the question that now began to torture her.

"Have you seen my footman this morning, Mrs. Murdock?" she inquired.

"Nae, me leddy; the lad aye gaes to Banff for the mail about this hour."

"When he comes send him to me at once. And now please take the service away. And when you go downstairs institute a search for my maid. And do you, if you can do so conveniently, return and help me to pack."

"Aye, me leddy," replied the woman, as she lifted the tray and carried it away.

In a few minutes she returned and assisted Lady Vincent to fill one large trunk.

"That is all I shall take with me. I shall leave the remainder of my wardrobe in your care, Mrs. Murdock, and I must request you to see them packed and sent on to Edinboro', where I shall stop before deciding on my future steps," said Lady Vincent.

"Aye, me leddy; ye may be sure I will do a' in my power to serve your leddyship."

"And now pray see if Jim has returned from the post office."

Mrs. Murdock went; but returned with startling news:

"The lad Jamie has na got back, me leddy; and it e'en appears that he has na gane. I just asked ane o' the stable lads what time it was when Jamie took the horse to gang to the post office, and the lad said that Jamie had na come for the horse at a'!"

Claudia sprang up and gazed at the speaker in consternation; and then sunk down in her chair, and covered her face with her hands and groaned.

"Dinna do that, me leddy—dinna do that!"

"Oh, Mrs. Murdock! don't leave me! don't lose sight of me, or I shall vanish too; swallowed up in this great ruin!" she cried, with a shudder.

There was a rap at the door. Mrs. Murdock opened it. Lord Vincent's footman stood there.

"My lord sends his compliments to my lady, and says that the carriage is waiting to take her from the castle; the tide is rising, which will render the road impassable for several hours; and he hopes she will take that fact into consideration and not delay her departure."

"'Delay'? I am only too glad to go. But oh, my poor faithful servants. Mrs. Murdock, tell the man to send someone up here to carry my trunk down," said Lady Vincent, hastily putting on her sable cloak and tying on her bonnet.

Her heart ached at the thought of abandoning her servants; and she only reconciled herself to the measure by reflecting that to lodge information with the detective police at Banff would really be the best means she could possibly take for their recovery.

When two of the men servants had carried down her trunk, Lady Vincent shook hands with the kind-hearted housekeeper, and prepared to follow them. In taking leave of Mrs. Murdock she said:

"I thank you sincerely for your kindness to the strangers that came to your land. You are really the only friend that I and my unfortunate servants have met since our arrival in this country; and I shall not forget you!"

The housekeeper wept.

"When my poor servants reappear, if they ever should do so, you will be so good as to send them to me at Edinboro'. Send them to the railway office, where I will leave my address."

"Aye, me leddy, I will na forget," sobbed the old dame.

Claudia pressed her hand, dropped it, and went below.

In crossing the central hall towards the principal entrance Claudia suddenly stopped as though the Gorgon's head had blasted her sight. For Lord Vincent stood near the open door, as if to witness and triumph over her expulsion. With a strong effort she conquered her weakness and approached the door. The viscount made a low and mocking bow and stepped aside. Claudia confronted him.

"My lord," she said, "you think you have very successfully conspired against my honor; but if there is justice on earth, or in heaven, you will yet be exposed and punished."

Lord Vincent made her an ironical bow; but no other reply.

"Where are my servants?" she inquired solemnly.

"I am not their manager, my lady, that I should be conversant with their movements," answered the viscount.

"My lord, you well know where they are. And if Heaven should bless my efforts this morning, the world shall soon know."

"My lady, the way is open; the north wind rather piercing. Will you please to pass out and let me close it?" said his lordship, holding the door wide open for her exit.

"Will you tell me where my servants are?" persisted Claudia.

"I do not know, my lady. They have probably stolen the plate and gone. I will ask the butler, and if it is so, I will put the constables on their track," said Lord Vincent, bowing and waving his hand towards the door.

"I leave you to the justice of Heaven, evil man!" replied Claudia, as she passed through and left the castle. She entered the carriage and was driven off.

Lord Vincent closed the door behind her and then went into the breakfast room, where the cloth was already laid. Neither Mrs. MacDonald nor Mrs. Dugald had yet come down. They seemed to be sleeping late after their disturbed night.

Presently, however, they entered—Mrs. MacDonald looking very much embarrassed, Faustina pale as death. Lord Vincent received them with grave politeness, and they all sat down to the table.

It was then Lord Vincent said:

"Mrs. MacDonald, Lady Vincent has this morning left this house upon which she has brought so much dishonor. It is also necessary for me to go to London to take measures for the dissolution of my marriage. I am, therefore, about to ask of you a great favor."

"Ask any you please, my lord. I am very anxious to be of service to you in this awful crisis. And I will gladly do all in my power to help you," replied this very complaisant lady.

"I thank you, madam. I thank you very much. The favor I had to ask of you is this—that you will kindly remain here with Mrs. Dugald, until some plan is formed for her future residence."

"Surely, my lord, I will remain with great pleasure," answered this needy lady, who was only too glad to leave for a season the straitened home of her married sister, and take up her abode in this plentiful establishment.

"Again I thank you, madam; thank you cordially on the part of my widowed sister as well as on my own part," said the viscount courteously.

And this point being settled, the party dispersed.

Mrs. MacDonald retired to her own apartments to write a note to her sister, requesting that her effects might be forwarded to Castle Cragg.

Mrs. Dugald went to her boudoir to await there in feverish impatience the arrival of the viscount.

He did not keep her long in suspense; he soon entered, locked the door behind him, and seated himself beside her.

"She is gone—really gone?" whispered Faustina, in a low, eager, breathless voice.

"Yes, my angel; you heard me say so."

"Really and truly gone?"

"Really and truly."

"Oh, I am so glad! And her servants? Ah, I always hated those blacks! She has not left them behind?"

"Certainly not," answered the viscount evasively.

"Ah, what a relief! The house is well rid of them."

"It is, indeed, my love."

"But—but—but—the dead body?" whispered the woman in a husky voice, while her eyes dilated with terror.

"It is gone."

"Where? how?"

"I tied a heavy weight to its feet and sunk it in the depths of the sea," replied the viscount, who felt no scruples in deceiving anyone, least of all his accomplice in crime.

And this shows the utter falsity of the absurd proverb that asserts "there is honor among thieves." There can be no honor and no confidence in any league wherein the bond is guilt.

Lord Vincent was completely under the influence of Mrs. Dugald, whom he worshiped with a fatal passion—a passion the more violent and enduring because she continually stimulated without ever satisfying it. Up to this time she had never once permitted the viscount to kiss her. Thus he was her slave; but, like all slaves, he deceived his tyrant. He had deceived Mrs. Dugald from the first; he habitually deceived her.

In this instance he persuaded her that old Katie died under the influence of the chloroform that she had helped to administer on that fatal night when the old negress had been discovered eavesdropping behind the curtain in Mrs. Dugald's apartments.

What his motive could have been for this deception it would be difficult to say; perhaps it was for the purpose of gaining some power over her; perhaps it was from the pleasure of torturing her and seeing her terrors—for his passion for the woman was by no means that pure love which seeks first of all the good of its object; and, finally, perhaps it was from the mere habit of duplicity.

However that might be, he had persuaded her that Katie was dead, dead from the effects of the chloroform they had forced her to take.

And now that he had really committed a felony by selling the three negroes to a West Indian smuggler, he was not inclined to confess the truth. For not upon any account would he have confided to his companion in guilt the secret of a criminal transaction in which she had not also been implicated. He could not have trusted her so far as to place his liberty in her keeping. Therefore he preferred she should believe Katie's body had been sunk in the depths of the sea; and that Sally and Jim had accompanied their lady in her departure from the castle. It is true, the household servants might soon disabuse her mind of the mistake that the lady's maid and footman had gone with their mistress. But if they should do so, the viscount knew he could easily plead ignorance as to the fact; and say that all he knew was, she had not left them at the castle.

Mrs. Dugald listened to his account of the disposition of old Katie's body with deep delight. She clapped her little hands in her usual silly manner and exclaimed eagerly:

"That is good; oh, that is good! But are you sure it will stay down there? Great Heaven, if it should rise against us!"

"There is no danger, love, no danger."

"We should all be guillotined!" she repeated for the twentieth time since that night. And she shuddered through all her frame.

"Hanged, my dearest, not guillotined; hanged by the neck till we are dead," said the viscount, smiling.

"Ah, but you look like Mephistopheles when you say that!" she shrieked, covering her face with her hands.

"But there is no danger, none at all, I assure you. And now, my angel, I must leave you; I ordered the brougham to be at the door at twelve precisely to take me to Banff to meet the Aberdeen coach. And I have some preparations to make. Come down into the drawing room and wait to take leave of me, that is a dear."

"Oh, yes, yes! but before you go, promise me! You will write every day?"

"Every day, my angel," said the viscount, bowing over her hand, before he withdrew from the room.

His preparations were soon made. Old Cuthbert performed the duties of valet. And punctually at twelve o'clock the viscount took leave of his evil demon and her chaperon and departed for Banff, where he took the coach to Aberdeen, at which place he arrived in time to catch the night train up to London.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE COUNTESS OF HURSTMONCEUX.

The beauteous woe that charms like faded light, The cheek so pure that knows no youthful bloom, Well suiteth her dark brow and forehead white, And in the sad endurance of her eye Is all that love believes of woman's majesty. —Elliott.



In the meantime Lady Vincent reached Banff. She drove at once to the principal hotel, where she engaged a room into which her luggage was carried. With a gratuity to the coachman who had driven her she dismissed the carriage, which returned immediately to the castle.

Then she ordered a fly and drove to the police station—at that time a mean little stone edifice, exceedingly repulsive without and excessively filthy within.

A crowd of disreputable-looking ragamuffins of both sexes and all ages obstructed the entrance. Surely it was a revolting scene to one of Lady Vincent's fastidious nature and refined habits. But she did not shrink from her duty. She made her way through this disgusting assemblage, and found just within the door a policeman, to whom she said:

"I wish, if you please, to see your inspector."

"You will have to wait in the outer room, then, miss, because he is engaged now," replied the man curtly; for the beauty of the woman, the costliness of her apparel, and the fact of her having come unattended to a place like that, filled the mind of the officer with evil suspicions concerning her.

He opened a door on the left and let the visitor pass into the anteroom—a wretched stone hall, whose floor was carpeted with dirt and whose windows were curtained with cobwebs. A bench ran along the wall at one end, on which sat several forlorn, stupefied, or desperate-looking individuals waiting their turn to be examined. Two or three policemen, walking up and down, kept these persons in custody.

Claudia could not sit down among them; she walked to one of the windows and looked out.

She waited there some time, while one after another the prisoners were taken in and examined. Some returned from examination free, and walked out unattended and wearing satisfied countenances. Others came back in the custody of policemen and with downcast looks.

It seemed long before the inspector was at leisure to receive her. At length, however, the policeman she had seen at the door came up and said:

"Now, miss!"

Claudia arose and followed him to another room—a small, carpeted office, where Inspector Murray was seated at a desk.

He was a keener observer of character than the policeman had proved himself to be; and so, despite the suspicious circumstances which had awakened that worthy's doubts, Inspector Murray recognized in his visitor a lady of rank. He arose to receive her and handed her a chair, and then seated himself and respectfully waited for her to open her business.

Lady Vincent felt so much embarrassed that it was some time before she spoke. At length, however, she took courage to say:

"My errand here is a very painful one, sir."

The inspector bowed and looked attentive.

"Indeed it is of so strange and distressing a nature that I scarcely know how to explain it," she said.

"I beg you will feel no hesitation in making your communication, madam. We are accustomed to receive strange and distressing complaints."

"Sir," said Claudia, gently preparing the way, "you have not failed, then, in the course of your professional experience, to observe that crime is not an inmate of the houses of the impoverished and the degraded only, but that it may be found in the mansions of the rich and the palaces of the nobility."

"Without a doubt, madam."

"Then you will be the less shocked when I inform you that the circumstances which have driven me to seek your aid occurred recently in Castle Cragg, in the family of Lord Vincent."

"It is not the murder that was lately committed there to which you allude?" gravely inquired the inspector.

"Oh, no, not that murder; but I greatly fear there has been another one," replied Claudia, with a shudder.

"Madam!" exclaimed the inspector, in astonishment.

"I fear it is as I have hinted, sir," persisted Claudia.

"But who has been murdered?"

"I suspect that a harmless old female servant, named Katie Mortimer who became aware of a dangerous secret, has been."

"And—by whom?"

"I fear by a woman called Faustina Dugald and a man named Alick Frisbie."

Now, it is very difficult to surprise or startle an inspector of police. But Mr. Murray was really more than surprised or startled. He was shocked and appalled, as his countenance betrayed when he dropped his pen and fell back in his chair.

"Madam," he said, "do you know what you are saying?"

"Full well, sir; and I entreat you to receive my statement in detail and act upon it with promptitude. Your own investigations will discover how much cause I have for my suspicions," said Claudia firmly.

The inspector drew some writing paper before him, took up his pen, and said:

"Proceed, madam, if you please."

Claudia commenced her statement, but was almost immediately interrupted by the inspector, who said:

"Your name, madam, if you please."

Claudia started and blushed at her own forgetfulness; though, in truth, it had never occurred to her to introduce herself by name to an inspector of police. Now, however, she perceived how necessary it was that her name should attend her statement.

"I am Lady Vincent," she replied.

There was an instantaneous change in the inspector's manner. His deportment had been respectful from the first, because he had recognized his visitor as a lady; but his manner was obsequious now that he heard she was a titled lady.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he said. "I had no idea that I was honored with the presence of Lady Vincent. Pray, my lady, do not inconvenience yourself in the least by going over these painful things at the present hour, unless you feel that it is really necessary. I could wait on your ladyship at your residence and receive your communication there."

"Sir, I thank you for your courtesy, but I prefer to make my statement now and here," replied Claudia.

The inspector dipped his pen in ink and looked attentive.

Claudia proceeded with her communication. She related all the circumstances that had come to her knowledge respecting the disappearance of Katie, and the inspector took down her words.

Then she mentioned the more recent evanishment of Sally and Jim; but she alluded to these facts only as collateral circumstances; she could not believe that the two last named had lost their lives.

When the inspector had taken down the whole of her statement she arose to go.

The inspector also arose.

"Will you investigate this matter immediately?" she said.

"I will do so to-day, my lady," replied Mr. Murray, bowing deferentially.

"Can I be of any assistance to you in pursuing your inquiry into this affair?"

"Not at present, I thank your ladyship," replied the inspector, with a second bow.

"Then I will bid you good-morning."

"I beg your ladyship's pardon; but would your ladyship deign to leave your address with me? We might need your ladyship's personal testimony."

"Certainly," said Claudia. "I shall go to Edinboro' to-day, where I shall remain at the best hotel, if you know which that is, for a few days; before I leave I will write and advise you of my destination. And now there is one important part of my errand that I had nearly forgotten. It was to ask you to advertise for the missing servants, and to authorize you to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for any information that may lead to their recovery."

"I will do it immediately, my lady," replied Inspector Murray, as he obsequiously attended Lady Vincent to the door and put her into the fly.

She drove quickly back to her hotel, where she had only time to take a slight luncheon before starting in the eleven o'clock coach for Aberdeen, where, after four hours' ride through a wildly picturesque country, she arrived just in time to take the afternoon train to Edinboro'. It was the express train, and reached the old city at seven o'clock that evening.

Among the many hotels whose handbills, pasted on the walls of the railway station, claimed the attention of travelers, Claudia selected "MacGruder's," because it was opposite Scott's monument.

She took a cab and drove there. She liked the appearance of the house, and engaged a comfortable suite of apartments, consisting of a parlor, bed chamber, and bathroom, and ordered dinner.

Now, by all the rules of tradition, Claudia, ignominiously expelled from her husband's house, deprived of her servants' attendance, far from all her friends, alone in a strange hotel in a foreign city, with a degrading trial threatening her—Claudia, I say, ought to have been very unhappy. But she was not. She was almost happy.

Her spirits rebounded from their long depression. Her sensations were those of escape, freedom, independence. She felt like a bird freed from its cage; a prisoner released from captivity; a soul delivered from purgatory. Oh, she was so glad—so glad to get away entirely, to get away forever—from the hold of sin, that Castle Cragg, where she had been buried alive so long; where she had lived in torment among lost spirits; where the monotony had been like the gloom of the grave, and the guilt like the corruption of death!

She had passed through the depths of Hades, and was happy—how happy!—to rise to the upper air again and see the stars. This, only, was enough for the present. And she scarcely thought of the future. Whatever that unknown future might bring her, it would not bring back Castle Cragg, Lord Vincent, Faustina, or Frisbie.

After she had refreshed herself with a bath and a change of dress, she went into the parlor, where she found a warm fire, a bright light, and a neatly laid table.

And whatever you may think of her, she really enjoyed the boiled salmon, roasted moor-hen, and cabinet custard she had ordered for dinner. After the service was removed she sat comfortably in her easy-chair before the fire, and reflected on her future movements.

She liked her quarters in this hotel very much. The rooms were clean and comfortable; the servants were polite and attentive; the meals delicately prepared and elegantly served.

And she resolved to remain here for the present; to write to her father by the first American mail; and while waiting for his answer, beguile the interval by seeing everything that might prove interesting in the city and in the surrounding country.

And in a locality so rich in historical monuments as this was, she was sure of interesting occupation for the month that must intervene before she could hear from her father in answer to the letter which she meant to write.

She had brought with her from Castle Cragg all the ready money she had; it was something more than two hundred pounds; so that there was nothing to fear from financial embarrassments.

After settling this matter to her satisfaction, Claudia, feeling very tired, went to bed, and having lost two nights' rest, immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, that lasted, unbroken, until morning.

Her first sensation on awakening from this sleep of oblivion to the consciousness of her altered circumstances was—not humiliation at her own unmerited dishonor—not dread of the impending, degrading trial—but pleasure at the recollection that she was free; that she was away from Castle Cragg; that she would not have to meet Lord Vincent and Faustina at breakfast; that she would never have to meet them again.

Ah! only those who have been compelled for months to breathe the vitiated atmosphere of guilt can appreciate the excess of Claudia's joy at her deliverance. It was a joy that not even the distressing circumstances that surrounded her, and the trial that awaited her, had any power to destroy.

To one who knew her position, without being able to enter into her feelings, it would have seemed an extravagant, an unnatural, an insane joy. Perhaps she was a little insane; she had had enough trouble to derange her reason.

She arose gladly. She had a motive for rising now; formerly, at Castle Cragg, she had none, because she had nothing to do. Now she had to order her breakfast, write to her father, and drive round to see the old city.

She dressed herself quickly and went into the parlor. The windows were already opened, the fire lighted, and the breakfast table was laid.

She went to the windows and looked out. The morning was clear and bright. It seemed to her that even Nature sympathized in her deliverance. The winter sun shone down brightly upon Scott's monument, that stood within its inclosure in the middle of the space before her windows. Yes, she was pleased with her quarters.

She rang the bell and ordered breakfast, which was quickly served. When she had finished her morning meal and sent the service away, she got her writing-case from her trunk and sat down to write to her father and give him a detailed account of her misfortunes.

But she found a difficulty in arranging her thoughts; her mind was in too excitable a condition to admit of close application. She commenced, and discarded letter after letter.

Finally, she gave up trying to write for the present. There was time enough; the foreign mail, as she had ascertained, did not close until six o'clock in the evening. She thought a drive through the old city would work off her excitement and tranquilize her nerves. She rang and ordered a fly, and drove out.

First she went to Holyrood, and soon lost all consciousness of her own present and individual troubles in dreaming of all those princes, heroes, and beauties of history who had lived and sinned or suffered within those old palace walls.

She went into Queen Mary's rooms, and fell into a reverie over that fatal bed-chamber, which remains to this day in the same condition in which it was left by the hapless queen about three hundred years ago. She saw the steep, dark, narrow, secret staircase, with its opening concealed behind the tapestry, up which the assassins of Rizzio had crept to their murderous work. She saw the little turret closet in which the poor queen was at supper with her ladies when the minstrel was surprised and massacred in her presence.

She went into the great picture gallery, where hung the portraits of the Scottish kings—each mother's royal son painted with a large curled proboscis—"a nose like a door-knocker," as someone described it. With one exception—that of James IV., the hapless hero of Flodden field. It was a full-length portrait, life-sized, and full of fire. Claudia stood and gazed upon it with delight. She was charmed by its beauty and by the lines that it brought distinctly to her recollection. Whether this was really a faithful portrait of King James or not, it certainly was an accurate likeness of the hero described by the poet:

"The monarch's form was middle size; For feat of strength or exercise Shaped in proportion fair; And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye His short curled beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance And firm his stirrup in the lists; And oh! he had that merry glance That seldom lady's heart resists."

Yes, there he stood before her, pictured to the very life; all luminous with youth and love, chivalry and royalty; bending graciously from the canvas, smiling upon the spectator, and seeming about to step forward and take her hand.

Claudia turned away from this picture, feeling at the same moment both pleased and saddened. She had spent three hours dreaming amongst the ancient halls and bowers of Holyrood, and now she felt that it was time for her to return to the hotel, especially as the palace was beginning to be filled with the usual daily inflowing of sight-seers, and she felt somewhat fatigued and worried by the crowd.

So she went out and re-entered her cab, and was driven back to the hotel. Here an unexpected misfortune awaited her. As she left the cab she put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse and pay the cabman.

It was gone!

She turned sick with apprehension, for the loss of this purse, which contained all the money which she had brought with her, was, under the circumstances, a serious calamity.

She hurried again into the cab and searched it thoroughly; but no purse was to be found.

Then the truth burst upon her; she had been robbed of it by someone in the crowd of visitors in Holyrood Palace; her pocket had probably been picked while she stood in the picture gallery dreaming before the portrait of King James. How she reproached herself for her carelessness in taking so considerable an amount of money with her.

She was excessively agitated; but she managed to control herself sufficiently to speak calmly to the waiter, and say:

"Be good enough to pay this man and put the item in my bill"

The waiter obeyed and discharged the cab; for, of course, the name of Lady Vincent was as yet a passport to credit. Then she hurried to her room in a state of great agitation that nearly deprived her of all power to think or act. She rang the bell, which brought a waiter to her presence.

"I would like to see the landlord of this hotel," she said.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but the proprietor lives out of town," returned the man.

"Then send the clerk of the house, or the head waiter, or whoever is in charge here."

"I will send the clerk, my lady," said the waiter, retiring.

The clerk soon made his appearance.

"Sir," said Claudia, "I sent for you to say, that while I was seeing Holyrood Palace, this forenoon, my pocket was picked of my purse, which contained a considerable amount of money; and I wish to ask you what steps I should take for its recovery?"

"Have you any idea of the sort of person that robbed you, my lady?"

"Not the slightest; all I know is that I had the purse with me when I paid the guide on entering the palace, and then I missed it when I reached home; and all I suspect is that it was purloined from me while I was in the picture gallery, standing before the portrait of James IV."

"In what form was the money, my lady?"

"Five and ten pound Bank of England notes."

"Were the numbers taken?"

"Oh, no; I never thought of taking the numbers."

"Then, my lady, I very much fear that it will be difficult or impossible to recover the money. However, I will send for a detective, and we will make an effort."

"Do, sir, if you please."

The clerk retired.

In a few moments Detective Ogilvie waited on Lady Vincent, and received her statement in regard to the robbery, promised to take prompt measures for the discovery of the thief, and retired.

Then suddenly Claudia remembered her letter to her father It was now near the close of the short winter day. Her interview with the detective had occupied her so long that she had barely time to scribble and send off the few urgent lines with which the reader is already acquainted. Then she dined and resigned herself to repose for the remainder of the evening.

While she sat in her easy-chair luxuriating in indolence and solitude before the glowing fire, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she was not really so badly off as the loss of her purse had first led her to suppose. She recollected that she had several costly rings upon her fingers; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—the least valuable of which was worth more than the purse of money which had been stolen from her; and if she should be driven to extremity she could part with one of these rings; but then, on calm consideration of the subject, she had really no fears of being driven to extremity. She was Lady Vincent, and her credit was as yet intact before the world. This was a first-class hotel, and would supply her with all that she might require for the month that must intervene before her father's arrival.

She would spend this interval in seeing Edinboro' and its environs, and when her father should come she would persuade him to take her to the Continent, and afterwards carry her back to her native country, and to her childhood's home, to pass the remainder of her life in peace and quietness.

Dreaming over this humble prospect for the future, Claudia retired to bed, and slept well.

The next morning, as soon as she had breakfasted, she ordered a carriage from the stables connected with the hotel and drove to Edinboro' Castle, where she spent two or three hours among its royal halls and bowers, dreaming over the monuments of the past.

She lingered in the little cell-like stone chamber where Queen Mary had given birth to her son, afterwards James VI. She read the pathetic prayer carved on the stone tablet above the bedstead, and said to have been composed by the unhappy queen in behalf of her newborn infant.

In the great hall of the castle she paused long before a beautiful portrait of Mary Stuart, that was brought from Paris, where it had been painted, and which represented the young queen in her earliest womanhood, when she was the Dauphiness of France. And Claudia thought that this portrait was the only one, among all that she had ever seen of Mary Stuart, which came up to her ideal of that royal beauty, who was even more a queen of hearts than of kingdoms.

At length, weary of sight-seeing, she re-entered her carriage and returned home. While she was in her bedchamber taking off her bonnet, a card was brought to her.

"This must be a mistake—this cannot be for me; I have no acquaintances in the town," she said, without taking the trouble to glance at the card.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon, but the countess inquired particularly for Lady Vincent," replied the waiter who had brought the card.

"The countess?" repeated Claudia, and she took it up and read the lightly penciled name:

"Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux."

"Say to Lady Hurstmonceux that I will be with her in a few minutes," said Claudia.

"'Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux,'" she repeated when the man had retired; "that is the widow of the late earl, and the forsaken wife of Herman Brudenell. What on earth brings her here? And how did she know of my presence in the city, and even in this house? However, I shall know soon, I suppose."

And so saying, Claudia made a few changes in her toilet, and went into the parlor.

Standing, looking from the window, was a lady dressed in a black velvet bonnet and plumes, a black silk gown, and a large sable cloak and muff.

As Claudia entered, this lady turned around and lifted her veil, revealing a beautiful, pale face, with large, deep-fringed, mournful dark eyes, and soft, rippling, jet-black hair. At the first glance Claudia was touched by the pensive beauty of that lovely face.

Yes! at the age of forty-five the Countess of Hurstmonceux was still beautiful. She had passed a serene life, free alike from carking cares and fashionable excesses, and so her beauty had been well preserved. It would have taken a keen observer to have detected the few wrinkles that had gathered in the corners of her fine eyes and plump lips, or to have found out the still fewer silver threads that lay hidden here and there among her dark tresses.

Claudia advanced to greet her, holding out her hand, and saying:

"The Countess of Hurstmonceux, I presume?"

"Yes," replied the visitor, with a sweet smile.

"I am Lady Vincent; and very happy to see you. Pray be seated," said Claudia, drawing forward a chair for her visitor.

"My dear Lady Vincent, I only learned this morning of your arrival in town, and presuming upon my slight connection with the family of the present Earl of Hurstmonceux, I have ventured to call on you and claim a sort of relationship," said Berenice kindly.

"Your ladyship is very good, and I am very glad to see you," said Claudia cordially. Then suddenly recollecting her own cruel position, and feeling too proud as well as too honest to appear under false colors, she blushed, and said:

"I cannot think how your ladyship could know that I was here; but I am sure that when you did me this honor of calling, you did not know the circumstances under which I left Castle Cragg."

A tide of crimson swept over the pale face of Berenice; it arose for Claudia, not for herself, and she replied:

"My dear, wronged lady, I know it all."

"You know all—all that they allege against me, and you call me wronged?" exclaimed Claudia, in pleased surprise.

"I know all that they allege against you, and I believe you to be wronged. Therefore, my dear, I have come to-day to offer you all the service in my power," said Berenice sweetly.

Claudia suddenly caught her hand and clasped it fervently.

"And now, my dear Lady Vincent, will you permit me to explain myself and inform you how I became acquainted with the circumstances of your departure from Castle Cragg, and your arrival at this house?" inquired Berenice.

"Oh, do! do!" replied Claudia.

"You must know, then, that a few of my old domestics, who served the late earl and myself while we lived at Castle Cragg, still remain there in the service of the present earl's family, which is always represented at the castle by Lord Vincent. Among them there are two who, it appears, became very much attached to your ladyship. I allude to the housekeeper, Jean Murdock, and the major-domo, Cuthbert Allan."

"Yes, they were very kind; but, after all, it was old Cuthbert who sent that note to Lord Vincent, which brought him from the play at midnight to burst into my room and find his wretched valet hidden there," replied Claudia gravely.

"Yes; Cuthbert saw the valet steal into your room and sent word to his master, as in duty bound. But, after witnessing the scene of his discovery, Cuthbert's mind instantly cleared your ladyship of suspicion and rushed to the conclusion that the miserable valet concealed himself in your boudoir unknown to you and for the purpose of robbery. I, for my part, believe he was placed there with the connivance of Lord Vincent, and that old Cuthbert was made to play a blind part in that conspiracy."

"I knew, of course, that it was a conspiracy, but really wondered to find the honest old man in it."

"He was a blind tool in their hands. But I was about to tell you how the facts of your departure from the castle and your arrival in this hotel came to my knowledge. In brief, I received a letter from old Cuthbert this morning, in which he related the whole history of the affair, as it was known to him. He expressed great sorrow for the part he had been obliged to bear in the business, and the most respectful sympathy for your ladyship. He said his 'heart was sair for the bonnie leddy sae far frae a' her friends and living her lane in Edinboro' toun.' And he begged me to find you out and protect you. To this letter was added a postscript by Jean Murdock. It was a warm, humble, respectful encomium upon your ladyship, in which she joined her prayers to those of Cuthbert that I would seek you out and succor you."

As Berenice spoke, blushes dyed the cheeks of Claudia, and tears dropped from her eyes. She was softened by the kindness of those two old people, and their patronage humiliated her.

Something of the nature of her emotions the countess must have divined, for she took the hand of Claudia and said:

"Believe me, dear Lady Vincent, I did not need urging to come to you. I needed only to know that you were in town and alone. As soon as I read the letters I sent for the morning paper to look for the arrivals at the various hotels, to see if I could find your name among them. I could not, and so I was about to lay aside the paper and send for the one of the day before, when my eye happened to light on a paragraph in which I found your name. It was the robbery of your purse at Holyrood Palace. There I learned your address. And I came away here immediately."

Claudia's fingers tightened on the hand of the countess which she still retained in hers.

"How much I thank you, Lady Hurstmonceux, you can never know; because you have never felt what it is to be a stranger in a foreign country, with your fame traduced and not one friend to stand by your side and sustain you," she said.

Again that crimson tide swept over the pale face of Berenice; but this time it was for herself, and she answered:

"Oh, yes, yes! I have known just that. Ten years in a foreign country, forsaken, shunned, traduced, without one friend to speak comfort to an almost breaking heart—It is past. I have overlived it. The God of my fathers has sustained me. Let us speak no more of it." And crimson as she had been for a moment she was as pale as marble now.

Claudia laid her hand caressingly upon the shoulder of Berenice and looked in her face with that mute sympathy which is more effective than eloquent words. Something, indeed, she had heard of this before, but the rumor had left no impression on her mind; though she blamed herself now for the momentary forgetfulness.

"Let us speak of yourself and your plans for the future," said the countess.

"My plans are simple enough. I have written to my father. I shall remain here until his arrival," said Claudia.

There was a pause between them for a few minutes, during which the countess seemed in deep thought, and then this still beautiful woman, smiling, said:

"I am old enough to be your mother, Lady Vincent, and in the absence of your father, I hope you will trust yourself to my guardianship. It is not well, under present circumstances, that you should remain alone at a public hotel. Come with me and be my guest at Cameron Court. It is a pretty place, near Roslyn Castle, and despite all the evil in the hearts of men, I think I can make your visit there pleasant and interesting."

Claudia burst into tears; the proud Claudia was softened, almost humbled by this unexpected kindness.

"God bless you!" was all that she could say. "I will gladly go."

"I am your mother, in the meantime, Claudia, you know," said Lady Hurstmonceux, touching the bell.

"You are my guardian angel!" sobbed Claudia.

"Lady Vincent's bill, if you please," said the countess to the waiter who answered the bell, and who immediately bowed and disappeared.

But Claudia grasped the arm of the countess and exclaimed in alarm:

"I had forgotten. I cannot leave the hotel yet, because I cannot pay the bill. My lost purse contained all the money that I brought from Castle Cragg." "What of that? I am your mother, Claudia, until you hear from your father; and your banker until you recover your money. Now, my dear, go put on your bonnet, while I settle with the waiter. My carriage is at the door, and we will go at once. I will send my own maid in a fly to pack up your effects and bring them after us."

"How much my father will thank and bless you!" said Claudia, as she left the room to prepare herself.

Lady Hurstmonceux paid the bill, and left half a sovereign in the hands of the chambermaid, bidding her take care of Lady Vincent's effects until they should be sent for.

And when Claudia came out, equipped for her ride, they went below stairs.

A handsome brougham, painted dark green, drawn by fine gray horses, with silver mountings on their harness and with a coachman and footman in gray-and-green livery stood before the door.

And the countess and her protegee entered it and were driven towards the Cameron Court.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE RESCUE.

The tide has ebbed away; No more wild surging 'gainst the adamant rocks, No swayings of the sea-weed false that mocks The hues of gardens gay; No laugh of little wavelets at their play! No lucid pools reflecting Heaven's brow— Both storm and cloud alike are ended now.

The gray, bare rocks sit lone; The shifting sand lies so smooth and dry That not a wave might ever have swept by To vex it with loud moan. Only some weedy fragments blackening grown To dry beneath the sky, tells what has been; But desolation's self has grown serene. —Anon.



We must now relate what happened to Ishmael and his companions after they were deserted by the lifeboats. When they were out of sight he dropped his eyes and bent his head in prayer for himself and his fellow-sufferers, and thus awaited his fate.

But, oh, Heaven of heavens! what is this? Is it death, or—life?

The wreck that had been whirling violently around at the mercy of the furious sea was now lifted high upon the crest of a wave and cast further up upon the reef, where she rested in comparative safety.

So suddenly and easily had this been done that it was some minutes before the shipwrecked men could understand that they were for the present respited from death.

It was Ishmael who now inspired and confirmed their hopes.

"Friends," he exclaimed, in a deep, earnest, solemn voice, as he looked around upon them, "let us return thanks to the Lord, for we are saved!"

"Yes; saved from immediate death by drowning, but perhaps not saved from a slow death of starvation," observed a "doubting Thomas" of their number.

"The Lord never mocks his servants with false hopes. We are saved!" repeated Ishmael emphatically, but with the deepest reverence.

For some hours longer the wind raved and the sea roared around the wreck; but even the highest waves could not now wash over it. As the sun arose the mist cleared away and the wreck gradually dried. About noon the sea began to subside. And at sunset all was calm and clear.

Ishmael and his companions now suffered from only two causes-hunger and cold-the sharpest hunger and the most intense cold; for every single atom and article that could be possibly used for food or covering had been washed out of the wreck and swept off to sea. And all day long they had been fasting and exposed to all the inclemency of that severe season and climate. And during the ensuing night they were in danger of death from starvation or freezing. But they huddled closely together and tried to keep life within them by their mutual animal heat; while Ishmael, himself confident of timely rescue, kept up their hopes. It was a long and trying night. But it ended at last. Day dawned; the sun arose. Then Ishmael saw some fragments of the wreck that had been tossed upon the rocks and left there by the retiring waves. Among them was a long spar. This he directed the men to drag up upon the deck. The men, who were weak from hunger and numb from cold, could scarcely find power to obey this order. But when they did, Ishmael took off his own shirt and fastened it to the end of the spar, which he immediately set up in its position as a flag-staff. They had no glass, and therefore could not sweep the horizon in search of a sail. But Ishmael had an eagle's piercing glance, and his fine eyes traveled continually over the vast expanse of waters in the hope of approaching rescue.

At last he cried out:

"A sail from the eastward, friends!"

"Hurrah! but are you sure, sir?" broke from half a dozen lips, as all hands, forgetting cold and hunger, weakness and stiffness, sprang upon their feet and strained their eyeballs in search of the sail; which they could not yet discern.

"Are you quite certain, sir?" someone anxiously inquired.

"Quite. I see her very plainly."

"But if she should not see our signal!" groaned "doubting Thomas."

"She sees it. She is bearing rapidly down upon us!" exclaimed Ishmael.

"I see her now!" cried one of the men.

"And so do I!" said another.

"And so do I!" added a third.

"She is not a sail-boat, she is a steamer," said a fourth, as the ship came rapidly towards the wreck. "She is the 'Santiago,' of Havana," said Ishmael, as she steamed on and came within hailing distance.

Then she stopped, blew off her steam, and sent out a boat. While it was cleaving the distance between the ship and the rocks a man on the deck of the former shouted through his trumpet:

"Wreck ahoy!"

"Aye, aye!" responded Ishmael, with all the strength of his powerful lungs.

"All safe with you?"

"All safe!"

As the boat was pushed up as near as it could with safety be brought to the wreck, the frozen and famished men began to climb down and drop into it. When they were all in, even to the professor, Ishmael stepped down and took his place among them with a smile of joy and a deep throb of gratitude to God, For, ah! the strong young man had loved that joyous and powerful life which he had been so prompt to offer up on the shrine of duty; and he was glad and thankful to return to life, to work, to fame, to love, to Bee!

The boatmen laid themselves to their oars and pulled vigorously for the steamer. They were soon alongside.

The men made a rush for her decks. They wanted to be warmed and fed. Ishmael let them all go before him, and then he followed and stepped upon the steamer.

And the next moment he found himself seized and clasped in the embrace of—Mr. Brudenell!

"Oh, my son, my brave and noble son, you are saved! God is kinder to me than I deserve!" he cried.

"One moment, Brudenell! Oh, Ishmael, thank Heaven, you are safe!" fervently exclaimed another voice—that of Judge Merlin, who now came forward and warmly shook his hand.

"Ant dere ish—von more—drue shentlemans—in te vorlt!" sobbed the German Jew, seizing and pressing one of Ishmael's hands.

Captain Mountz, Doctor Kerr, and in fact all Ishmael's late fellow- passengers, now crowded around with earnest and even tearful congratulations.

And meanwhile dry clothes and warm food and drink were prepared for the shipwrecked passengers. And it was not until Ishmael had changed his raiment and eaten a comfortable breakfast that he was permitted to hear an explanation of the unexpected appearance of his friends upon the deck of the steamer.

It happened that the passengers in the lifeboats, after suffering severely with cold and with the dread of a slow death from exposure for twelve hours, were at last picked up by the "Santiago," a Spanish steamer bound for Havana. That after their wants had been relieved by the captain of the "Santiago" they had told him of the imminently perilous condition In which they had left the remnant of the crew and passengers. And the captain had altered the course of the ship in the forlorn hope of yet rescuing those forsaken men. And the Lord had blessed his efforts with success. Such was the story told by Mr. Brudenell and Judge Merlin to Ishmael.

"But, oh, my dear boy, what a fatal delay! Just think of it! This steamer is bound for Havana. And this very day, when we ought to be landing on the shores of England, we find ourselves steaming in an opposite direction for the West India Islands," said Judge Merlin.

"Oh, sir, trust still in Heaven," answered Ishmael. "Think how marvelously the Lord has delivered us from danger and death! This very delay that seems so fatal may be absolutely necessary to our final success."

The words of Ishmael proved prophetic. For had it not been for their shipwreck and the consequent alteration in their course, their voyage to England would have been taken in vain.

The "Santiago" steamed her way southward, and in due course of time, without the least misadventure, reached the port of Havana.

It was Sunday, the first of January, when they arrived.

"We shall have no trouble with the Custom House officers here," laughed Ishmael, as he gave his arm to Judge Merlin and went on shore, leaving all the passengers who had not been shipwrecked, and lost their luggage, to pass the ordeal he and his friends had escaped.

They went at once to the hotel which had been recommended to them by the captain of the "Santiago."

And as this was Sunday, and there was no English Protestant church open, they passed the day quietly within doors.

On Monday Judge Merlin's first care was to go to the American consul and get the latter to accompany him to a banker, from whom he procured the funds he required in exchange for drafts upon his own New York bankers.

While Judge Merlin was gone upon this errand Ishmael went down to the harbor to make inquiries as to what ships were to sail in the course of the week for Europe.

He found that he had a choice between two. The "Mary," an English sailing ship, would leave on Wednesday for London. And the "Cadiz," a screw steamer, would sail on Saturday for the port whose name she bore.

Ishmael mentally gave preference to the swift and sure steamer, rather than the uncertain sailing packet; but he felt bound to refer the matter to Judge Merlin before finally deciding upon it.

With this purpose he left the harbor and entered the city. He was passing up one of the narrow granite-paved streets in the neighborhood of the grand cathedral where lie the ashes of Columbus, when he was startled by hearing quick and heavy footsteps and a panting, eager voice behind him:

"Marse Ishmael! Marse Ishmael Worth! Oh, is it you, sir, dropped from the clouds to save me! Marse Ishmael! Oh, stop, sir! Oh, for de Lord's sake, stop!"

Ishmael started and turned around, and, to his inexpressible amazement, stood face to face with old Katie.

"Oh, Marse Ishmael, honey, is dis you? Is dis indeed you, or only de debbil deceiving of me!" she exclaimed, panting for breath as she caught him by the greatcoat, and grasping him as the drowning grasp a saving plank.

"Katie!" exclaimed Ishmael, in immeasurable astonishment. "Yes, honey, it's Katie. Yes, my dear chile, ole Katie an' no ghose, nor likewise sperit, dough you might think I is! But oh, Marse Ishmael! is you, you? Is you reely an' truly you, and no, no 'ception ob de debbil?"

"Katie!" repeated Ishmael, unable to realize the fact of her presence.

"Hi! what I tell you? Oh, Marse Ishmael, chile, don't go for to 'ny your old Aunt Katie, as nussed you good when you lay out dere for dead at Tanglewood! don't!" said the poor creature, clinging to his coat. "Katie!" reiterated Ishmael, unable to utter another word.

"Laws a massy upon top of me, yes! I keep on telling you, chile, I is Katie! don't 'ny me; don't 'ny me in my 'stress, Marse Ishmael, if ebber you 'spects to see hebben!" she said, beginning to cry.

"I do not deny you, Katie; but I am lost in amazement. How on earth came you here?" asked Ishmael, staring at her.

"I didn't come on earth at all. I come by de sea. Oh, Marse Ishmael! I done died since I lef' you! done died and gone to the debbil! been clar down dar in his place, which it aint 'spectable to name! done died and gone dere and come to life again, on a ship at sea."

"Who brought you here, Katie?" questioned Ishmael, thoroughly perplexed.

"De debbil, honey! de debbil, chile! Sure as you lib it was de debbil! Oh, Marse Ishmael, honey, stop long o' me! Don't go leabe me, chile, don't! Now de Lor' has sent you to me, don't go leabe me. You is all de hopes I has in de world!" she cried, clinging with desperate perseverance to his coat.

"I will not leave you, Katie. I have not the least intention of doing so. But all this is quite incomprehensible. Where is your mistress? She is never here?" said Ishmael.

"I dunno. I dunno nuffin 'bout my poor dear babyship—ladyship, I mean; only my head is so 'fused! Oh, lor', don't go break away from me! don't, Marse Ishmael!"

"I will not desert you, Katie, be assured that I will not; but let go my coat and try to compose yourself. Don't you see that you are collecting a crowd around us?" expostulated Ishmael.

But Katie hung fast, saying:

"'Deed I can't! 'Deed I can't, Marse Ishmael! If I let go of you I shall wake up an' find you is all a dream, an' I'll be as bad off as ebber," persisted Katie, taking Ishmael more firmly into custody than ever.

He laughed; he could not help laughing at the ludicrous desperation of his captor. But his astonishment and wonder were unabated; and he saw that Katie could not give a lucid explanation of her presence on the island, or at least not until her excitement should have time to subside.

Besides the crowd of negroes, mulattoes, and creoles, men, women, and children, who had gathered around them, with open eyes and mouths, was still increasing.

"Katie," he said, "we cannot talk in the middle of the street with all these people staring at us. So come with—"

"Oh, lor', Marse Ishmael," interrupted Katie, "don't you mind dese poor trash! Dey can't speak one word o' good Christian talk, nor likewise understand a Christian no mor'n dumb brutes. Dey is no better nor barbariums, wid dere o's and ro's ebery odder word. Don't mind dem herrin's."

"But, Katie, they have eyes. Come with me to the hotel. You will find your old master there."

"Who? My ole—" began Katie, opening her mouth, which remained open as if incapable of closing again, much less of uttering another syllable.

"Yes, Judge Merlin is here."

"My ole—Well, Lor'!"

"Come, Katie."

"My ole—If ebber I heard de like! What de name o' sense he doin' here? An' same time, what you doin' here yourself, Marse Ishmael?"

"Katie, it is a long story. And I fancy we both, you and I, have much to tell. Will you come with me to my hotel?"

"Will I come, Marse Ishmael? Why wouldn't I come den? Sure I'll come. I don't mean to do nuffin else; nor likewise let go of you, nor lose sight of you, de longest day as eber I lib, please my 'Vine Marster, don't I; so dere!" replied the old creature, tightening her clasp upon Ishmael's coat.

"Oh, Katie, Katie, but that would be too much of a good thing," said Ishmael, smiling.

"Dey done sent me arter pines. Fetch pines! I don't care as ebber I see a pine again as long as ebber I lib. I gwine to my own ole—, De Lor'! but de thought o' he being here!" cried Katie, breaking off in the middle of her speech again to give vent to her amazement.

"Now, Katie, you must walk by my side; but, really, you must let go my coat," said Ishmael kindly, but authoritatively.

"If I do, you promise me not to run away?" said Katie half pleadingly and half threateningly.

"Of course I do."

"Nor likewise wake me up to find it all a dream?"

"Certainly not, Katie."

"Well, den, I trust you, Marse Ishmael—I trust you," said Katie, releasing her hold on him. "'Dough, 'deed and 'deed," she added doubtingly, "so many queer things is happened of since I done left my ole—Goodness gracious me! to think o' he being here!—marster; and so many people and so many places has 'peared and dis'peared, dat, dere! I aint got no conference in nothing."

"I hope that you will recover your faith with your happiness, Katie. And now come on, my good woman," said Ishmael, who felt extremely anxious to get from her, as soon as they should reach the hotel, some explanation of her presence on the island, and some news of her unfortunate mistress.

They walked on as rapidly as the strength of the old woman would allow, for Ishmael would not permit her to put herself out of breath. When they reached the hotel Ishmael told Katie to follow him, and so led her to her master's apartments.

They stopped outside the door.

"You must remain here until I go in and see if the judge has returned from his ride from the bank. And if he has, I must prepare him for your arrival here; for your master has aged very much since you saw him last, Katie, and the surprise might hurt him," whispered Ishmael, as he turned the doorknob and went in.

The judge had just returned. He was seated at the table, counting out money. "Ha, Ishmael, my boy, have you got back?" he asked, looking up from his work.

"Yes, sir; and I have the choice of two packets to offer you. The brig 'Mary' sails for London on Wednesday; the steamer 'Cadiz' sails for the port of Cadiz on Saturday. The choice remains with you," said Ishmael, putting down his hat and seating himself.

"Oh, then we will go by the 'Cadiz'; though she sails at a later day, and for a farther port, we shall reach our destination sooner, going by her, than we should to go in a sailing packet bound direct for London."

"I think so too, sir; there is no certainty in the sailing packets. I hope you succeeded at the bank?"

"Perfectly; our consul, Tourneysee, went with me, to identify me and vouch for my solvency, and I got accommodated without any difficulty whatever. And now I must insist upon being banker for our whole party until we reach England."

"I thank you, sir, in behalf of my father as well as myself," said Ishmael.

"Now, let me see—nine hundred and seventy, eighty, ninety, an hundred—that is one thousand. I will lay that by itself," muttered the judge, still counting his money.

"I met an old acquaintance down in the city," said Ishmael, gradually feeling his way towards the announcement of Katie.

"Ah!" said the judge indifferently, and going on with his counting.

"An old friend, indeed, I may say," added Ishmael emphatically.

"Yes," replied the judge absently, and continuing to count.

"Judge Merlin," inquired Ishmael, in a meaning tone, "have you no curiosity to know who it was that I met near the quays?"

"No," said the old man, counting diligently; "some fellow you knew in Washington, I suppose, my boy. Why, the Lord bless you, I stumbled over half a dozen acquaintances on my way to the consulate and the bank. Among them Frank Tourneysee, who is staying here with his brother for the benefit of his health. He is a consumptive, poor man! crossed in love; or something;

"Sir, it was no casual acquaintance or ordinary friend that I met," said Ishmael, in so grave a voice that the judge looked up from his work and stared in wonder, not at the words, but at the manner of the speaker.

"It was no man, but a woman, sir," continued Ishmael, fixing his eyes wistfully upon the face of the old man.

"It was Claudia!" cried the judge, in an ear-piercing voice, jumping at once at the most improbable conclusion, as he started up, pale as death, and gazed with breathless anxiety upon the grave face of Ishmael.

"No, Judge Merlin," answered the young man, as he gently replaced him in his seat; "no, it was not Lady Vincent; but it is one who, I hope, can give us later news of her."

"Who—who was it then?" gasped the old man, trembling violently.

Ishmael poured out a glass of water and handed it to the judge, saying calmly:

"It was old Katie whom I met."

"Katie!" cried the judge, in astonishment, and holding the glass of water suspended in his hand.

"Katie. But drink your water, Judge Merlin; it will refresh you."

"Katie! But where is her mistress?" demanded the old man, in burning anxiety.

"I do not know, sir; Katie was too much excited by the shock of her meeting with me and hearing that you were on the island to give any coherent account of herself."

"But—how came she here if not in attendance upon her mistress? And—what should have brought Claudia here?—unless she should have been on her voyage home to me, and got wrecked and brought here, as we have been, which is not likely."

"No; that is too improbable to have happened, I should think. But drink the water, sir, let me beg of you."

"I will. I will, Ishmael, when I have qualified it a little!" said the judge, tottering to his feet and going to a buffet upon which stood some Jamaica rum. He mixed a strong glass of spirits and water, drank it, and returned to his seat, saying, as he sank into it with a deep sigh of refreshment:

"I feel better. Where is Katie? And how in the world came she here? And what news does she bring of her mistress?"

"Katie is outside that door, sir, waiting for you to receive her."

"Let her come in, then, Ishmael."



CHAPTER XXXV.

A FATHER'S VENGEANCE.

Haste me to know it; that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge! —Shakespeare.



Ishmael went to the door and admitted Katie. The old woman made an impulsive rush towards her master, but stopped and burst into a passion of tears so violent that she was scarcely able to stand.

"Sit down, Katie. Sit down and compose yourself. Your master will not take it amiss that you sit in his presence," said Ishmael, pushing a low, soft chair towards the woman, while he glanced inquiringly towards the judge.

"Certainly not; let her rest; sit down, Katie. How do you do?" said the judge, going towards his old servant and holding out his hands.

"Oh, marster! Oh, marster!" sobbed Katie, sinking into the seat and clinging to her master's venerable hands, upon which her tears fell like rain.

The judge gently withdrew his hands, but it was only that he might use them for Katie's relief.

He poured out a glass of the same restorative that he had found so effectual in his own case, and he made her drink it.

Poor Katie was unused to such stimulants, and she immediately felt its effects. Her eyes sparkled threateningly as she set the empty glass down upon the table.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, with indescribable force of spite; "ah, the whited saltpeter! Now I send her to de penumtenshury; now I send her dere to pick oakum in a crash gown and cropped hair, and an oberseer wid a big whip to drive her!"

"What is she talking of? What does she mean by whited saltpeter?" inquired the judge.

"'Whited sepulchre' is Katie's Scripture name for a hypocrite, I suppose," suggested Ishmael.

"Not on'y for a hypocrite, Marse Ishmael! Not on'y for a hypocrite; but for a pi'son, 'ceitful, lyin' white nigger!" said Katie, with her eyes snapping.

"Katie, Katie, you are using ugly words," remonstrated the judge.

"Not half so venomous ugly as dem I applies 'em to, begging your pardon, ole marse," said the woman, with a positive nod of her head.

"Where did you leave your lady?" inquired the judge, who had been almost dying of anxiety to ask this question, but had refrained on account of Katie's excessive agitation. "Where did you leave your mistress?"

"Le'me see. Where did I leave her ag'in? Oh! I 'members exactly now. 'Deed I got good reason to 'member dat night, if I never 'members anoder day nor night of my life."

"Tell us, Katie," said Ishmael.

"Well, den, I done lef her on de grand staircase o' de castle a- goin' down to dinner. And she looked beautiful in her rosy more antics, just like a lamb dressed for the sacrifice, 'cordin' to de Scriptur'. And she unsuspicionin' anything and me dyin' to tell her, on'y she wouldn't stop to listen to me."

"To tell her what, Katie?"

"Why, laws, honey, 'bout de debblish plot as my lordship and dat whited saltpeter and de shamwalley plotted ag'in her—ag'in her, my own dear babyship—ladyship, I meant to say."

"There was a plot, then?" inquired Ishmael, with forced calmness, for he wished quietly to draw out the woman's story without agitating and confusing her. "There was a plot then?"

"Oh, wasn't dere? De blackest plot ag'in my ladyship as ebber de old debbil hisse'f could o' put in anybody's head. And I heard it all! And I heard it all good, too."

"What was it, Katie? Can you tell us?" inquired Ishmael, while the judge bent his pale, careworn, and anxious face nearer the speaker.

"Well, Marse Ishmael, you know how solemn you cautioned me to watch ober my ladyship, don't you, sir?"

"Yes, Katie; yes."

"Well, I beared what you said in mind. And de dear knows as my poor dear ladyship did 'quire to be watched ober worse nor anybody I ebber seed. It seems like you was a prophet, Marse Ishmael, 'cause how you know how she was going to be sitterated."

"Never mind, Katie. Go on and tell us of the plot," said Ishmael, while Judge Merlin's face grew sharp and peaked in his silent anguish of suspense. But both knew that it was best to let Katie tell her story in her own way.

"Well, Marse Ishmael, sir, I laid to heart what you telled me so solemn, and I did watch ober my ladyship, and I watched ober her good! And she didn't know it, nor likewise nobody else. And berry soon I saw as my ladyship was 'rounded by inimies. And as dat whited saltpeter was a'tryin' to take her husband away from her. And den ag'in I say plain 'nough as my lordship was willin' 'nough for to be tuk, for dat matter. So I watched him and de whited saltpeter."

"But who is it that you call the whited sepulchre, Katie?" demanded the judge.

"Why, who but his sisser-in-law! his sisser-in-law what lib long o' him; yes! and libbed long o' him afore ebber my poor, dear, 'ceived ladyship ebber see him!"

"But who was this lady, and what was her name?" asked the judge.

"She warn't no lady! She was an oppry singer, as was no better 'an she should be, and as had misled away my lordship's younger brother, who married of her, and died, and serve him right, de 'fernally fool! And den ebber since he died she done lib long o' my lordship at de castle. And her name is Mrs. Doogood, which is a 'fernally false, 'cause she nebber does no good! But my lordship, whenebber he's palabering ob his sof' nonsense to her, he call her, so he do, Fustunner! I s'pose 'cause, when she quarrel wid him, she make fuss 'nough to stun a miller."

"And this woman you say was my daughter's enemy?"

"Well, I reckon, marster, as you would call her sich, ef you heerd de plot she and my lordship and de shamwalley made up 'gin my ladyship."

"Yes, but, Katie, you have not yet told us the plot," said Ishmael.

"Well, I gwine do it now, right off, Marse Ishmael! Well, you see I kept on watchin' of 'em, till one day, it happened as a poor gal, one o' de housemaids, was found wid her t'roat cut unnerneaf of de castle wall—"

At this announcement Judge Merlin started and looked at Ishmael, but the young man made a sign that the judge should say nothing that might interrupt the thread of Katie's narrative. Katie continued:

"And de offercers ob de law tuk possession ob de castle to 'quire inter who was de murderers ob de poor gal. But de more dey 'quired inter it, de more dey couldn't find it out! And arter dey'd stayed dere a whole week 'quiring, dey was furder off from findin' out nor ebber. So dey all up and sent in a werdick as de gal was foun' wid her t'roat cut and nobody knowed who did it. Dat was de werdick. Which dey needn't o' stayed 'quiring and eaten' and drinkin' on us a whole week to tell us dat. 'Cause we knowed dat much afore. How-so- ebber, home 'dey all went and let de poor gal be buried. And I happened to be in de big hall and to cotch my eye on my lordship, as he said to his wally sham:

'"Frisbie, I shall want you in my room presently; so don't be out o' de way.'

"And I cotch my eye on Mr. Frisbie, too, and I see how he turned sort o' white round de gills, and he say:

"'I'll be at hand, my lord.'

"I says:

"'And so will I be at hand, my lord.'

"And sure 'nough, I goes and steals inter my lordship's dressing room, unbeknown to anybody, and I hides myself ahind one ob dem thick curtains! And presently sure 'nough my lordship he comes in and rings for Mr. Frisbie. Marse Ishmael, honey, would you mind givin' of your poor old Aunt Katie another tumbler o' rum? 'Deed I don't beliebe as I can go on wid de story widout somet'ing to s'port me."

"So much rum is not good for you, Katie, but I will give you a glass of water," said Ishmael.

"Oh, honey, no, don't, please! I don't like water in de winter time, it allers gibs me a cold in the stummick. But rum warms me."

Judge Merlin, who was much too anxious that Katie should continue her story to be fastidious as to the means he took to that end, poured out and administered to the old creature a small portion of the spirits.

"Thanky, marster! thanky, chile! You'se got some feelin' for ole folks, you has! Dese young people, dey aint got no 'sideration, dey aint. Dat make me feel good all ober! now I gwine on. Well, Mr. Frisbie, he answers my lordship's bell and he comes in, so he does. And den—oh! Marse Ishmael!—my lordship 'cuses ob him o' bein' de murderer! and tells him how he, my lordship, seen him, Mr. Frisbie, do de deed! Well Frisbie, he fell on his two knees and begged for marcy. And oh! marster! my lordship promised to hide his crime on conditions—such conditions, Marse Ishmael!"

"What were they, Katie?" inquired Judge Merlin, in a dying voice, for a suspicion of something like the truth made him reel.

"My lordship promised de shamwalley he would save him from de gallows if he would help him to get rid ob Lady Vincent."

There was an irrepressible exclamation of horror from Ishmael and a low cry of anguish from Judge Merlin. But neither ventured to speak, lest by doing so he should confuse Katie, who continued her story.

"And so my lordship plotted wid de shamwalley, how he, de shamwalley, was to 'tend to be fond o' my ladyship, and follow arter her, and do sly things to draw de eyes o' de household on her, make dem all s'picion her, and talk about her—"

"What! my daughter! Claudia Merlin!" exclaimed the judge, in a voice of thunder, as he started to his feet and stood staring at the speaker.

"Oh, ole marse, for de Lord's sake, don't! You scare away all de little sense dem debbils has lef' me!" cried Katie, shuddering.

"His wretched lackey!" vociferated the judge. "By all the fiends in flames, I'll shoot that scoundrel Vincent with less remorse than I would a mad dog!"

"Oh, marster, yes! shoot him or hang him, jus' which ebber you thinks bes'! On'y don't roar so loud; for 'deed it's awful to hear you! And besides, if you do, I can't go on and tell you no more, and you ought to hear it all, you know," shivered Katie.

"She is right, sir! Pray compose yourself. Do you not see how important it is that we should have a clear statement of facts from this eye- and ear-witness of the conspiracy against Lady Vincent's honor? Try to listen coolly, sir! as coolly as if you were on the bench. Be—not the father, but the judge," earnestly remonstrated Ishmael, as he gently constrained his old friend to sit down again.

"Don't you know that I will kill that man?" exclaimed the judge, as he sank into his seat.

"I know that you will do just what a Christian gentleman should do in the premises," gravely replied Ishmael.

"Go on! what next?" demanded the judge, in a voice that utterly upset Katie, who had to recover her composure before she could continue her statement. At last she said:

"Well, den, arter dey had 'ranged dat plot dey lef' de room. And I come out and waylaid my ladyship to tell her all about it and put her on her guard. And I met her on de stairs jus' as I telled you afore, and she looking like an angel o' beauty; but she wouldn't stop to listen to me. She tole me to go to her dressing room and wait for her there. And she walked downstairs like any queen, so she did, and dat was de las' as ebber I see ob my ladyship."

Here Katie paused for breath. Ishmael made a sign to Judge Merlin not to speak. Then Katie went on.

"I goed to de dressin' room; and I waited and waited hour arter hour, but my ladyship she nebber come. But while I was a-peeping t'rough de door, a-watching for her, in comes dat whited saltpeter and goes into her 'partments. And den soon arter comes my lordship, takin' long, sly steps, like a cat as is gwine to steal cream. And he goes into Fustunner's rooms."

Katie paused, drew a long breath, and went on.

"You may be sure, marster, as I knowed he war a-going in dere to talk ober his debblish plot long o' her. So I jus' took a leaf out'n my lordship's own book and I creeps along jus' as sly as he could and I peeps t'rough de keyhole, and I sees as how dey wasn't in de outermos' room, but in de innermos', dough all the doors was open in a row and I seen clear t'rough to de dressin'-room fire, where dey was bof a-standing facin' of it, wid deir backs towards me. So I opens de door sof', an' steals in t'rough all de rooms to de las' one, and hides myse'f in de folds ob de curtain as was drawed up one side o' de door. So, sure 'nough, he was a-tellin' of her 'bout de plot ag'n my ladyship, and how dey would 'trive t'rough de wallysham to make her appear guilty, so he could get a 'vorce from her, and keep her fortin, and marry Fustunner!"

"Flames and furies!" burst forth the judge, starting to his feet; but Ishmael firmly, though gently, put him down again, and made an imploring sign that he should control his passion and listen in calmness.

It took Katie some little time to get over this last startling shock before she could continue her story.

"Now, Marse Ishmael, if you don't keep ole marster quiet, 'deed I gwine shut up my mouf, 'cause he's wuss on anybody's narves dan an elected battery," she said.

"Go on, Katie, go on!" commanded Ishmael, as he stood by Judge Merlin's chair and kept his arm over the old man's shoulders.

"Well, den, he keep still. 'Deed I 'fraid he tears me up nex' time he jump at me."

"Have no uneasiness, Katie. Go on!"

"Well, dat whited saltpeter—oh, but she's deep!—'proved ob de plot, and clapped her hands like a fool, and den she 'proved on de plot, too, for she planned out how dey should all make a party to go to de play, and pertend to inwite my ladyship to go 'long too, which they knowed she wouldn't do. And how dey should go widout her; and how de shamwalley should hide himse'f in my ladyship's room, unbeknownst to her; and how dey should all come back and bust open de door and find him in dere; and how he should 'fess a lie as my ladyship invited him dere, and was in de habit ob so doing—"

Here Ishmael had hard work to keep Judge Merlin down in his seat, and restrain the old man's demonstrations within the limits of making awful faces and tearing out his own gray hair by the roots.

Katie meanwhile continued:

"Well, marster, jus' when I had heerd dat much—cuss my nose!—I beg your pardon, Marse Ishmael, but—I sneezed! And nex' minute my lordship had me by de t'roat, and den he began cussin' and swearin', an' sassin' at me hard as ebber he could. But didn't I gib him good as he sent, soon as ebber he let go my t'roat? Well, childun, I jus' did! But den, when dey foun' out I had heern ebberyt'ing, and knowed all deir 'fernally tricks, and mean to 'form on dem, dey got scared, dey did! And my lordship ax what was to be done? And de whited saltpeter said how I mus'n't be let to leabe de room alibe. So when I heerd dat, I got scared; and anybody would in my place. So I opened my mouf to scream. But lor', childun, he squeezed my t'roat till I loss my breaf as well as my voice. But I heerd him ax her ag'in what was to be done? For, you see, de 'fernally fool seemed to 'pend on her for ebberyt'ing. And he ax her couldn't she help him? And she rushed about de room and fotch somefin, and he put it to my nose, and—I went dead!"

"It must have been chloroform," suggested Ishmael.

"Dunno what it was; but I'm sure I should know de truck ag'in. For of all de grape winyards and apple orchids and flower gardens as ebber smelt lovely, dat truck smelt de loveliest. And of all de silvery flutes and violins and pineannas and bells as ebber rung out for a wedding, dat truck did ring de silveriest t'rough my brain. And of all de 'luminations as ebber was 'luminated for de presiden's 'lection, dat truck did 'luminate my eyes. And tell you what, childun, dough dey was a-murdering of me wid it, de 'ceiving truck sent me right to hebben afore it sent me dead!"

"What next?" inquired Ishmael.

"Well, nex' thing when I come to life ag'in, I found myself in a dark, narrow, steep place, going down—bump! bump! bump! and den faster—bumpetty—bumpetty—bumpetty—bump! till I t'ought ebbery blessed bone in my body would have been broke! And I t'ought how two debbils had hold of my soul, a-dragging it down to—you know where," said Katie, rolling her eyes mysteriously.

"Proceed," said Ishmael.

"Well, when dey got me to de bottom, dey drag me along a wet, hard, stony floor, so dey did; and I 'fraid to draw my bref! Oh, marster! I couldn't tell you how far dey dragged me, till dey stopt. Den a voice said:

"'Finish her here!'—and dat was Fustunner's voice. And den anoder voice answered and said:

"'She's done for already.' And dat was my lordship's voice.

"And den I knowed as dey wa'n't debbils—leastways not spiritual debbils—as had my soul, dragging it down to—you know where; but human debbils, as was takin' of me down in some deep wault to kill me. So I t'ought de best t'ing I could do was to sham dead. So I kep' my eyes shet and held my breaf, and shammed hard as I could. But somehow or 'noder I don't t'ink I 'ceived my lordship. I t'ink I on'y 'ceived her. Anyways, he pitched me neck and crop into a dark, stony, wet cell, and locked de door on me, and den dey bof went away."

Here Katie paused and remained silent so long that Ishmael felt obliged again to set her going by saying:

"Well, Katie, what followed?"

"Why, nothing but darkness; blackness of darkness, Marse Ishmael, so thick it 'peared like I could feel it with my hands. I did get up on my feet and feel all around, and dere was nothing below, or 'round, or ober me but wet stone wall. And de place was so small, as I could stand dere and reach any part of de wall on any side ob me widout taking of a step. And wa'n't dat a perty place to put a Christian 'oman into? Deed, I beliebe I should o' gib up de ghose, if I had had de t'ought to t'ink about myself. But I hadn't. I t'ought only of my poor, dear ladyship up dere 'sposed to de treachery ob dem debbils wid nobody to warn her, nor likewise purtect her, poor dear baby! And when I t'ought of dat, seemed to me as my poor heart would 'a' bust. And I beliebe it would, on'y dere came a divurtisement. For you see, I sets myself down in my 'spair, on de cole stone floor; and soon as ebber I does dat, a whole passel o' rats come a- nosin' and a-smellin' at me, and nibblin' my shoes 's if dey'd like to 'vour me alibe; and it tuk all my time and 'tention to dribe dem away."

"That was horrible, Katie," said Ishmael, in a tone of sympathy.

"Well, so it was, Marse Ishmael; but for all dat somehow I was right down glad to see de rats—dey was alibe, and arter dey come, 'peared like de place wasn't so much like a grabe; 'sides which dey was company for me down dere in de dark, and dey gi' me somefin to do, keepin' dem offen me."

"But, Katie, were you not afraid of being abandoned there and left to die?"

"Well, honey, I s'pose I should ha' been ef I had t'ought of it. But, you see, I nebber t'ought o' nothin' but my poor, dear, desolate ladyship, as I telled you before."

"Yes; I can easily understand that, Katie. Lady Vincent's situation was even much worse than your own," said Ishmael.

"Oh, the infernal scoundrel! I'll kill him! I'll shoot him like a dog, if I have to follow him all over the world and spend my life in the pursuit!" broke forth Judge Merlin.

There ensued a short pause in the conversation, and then Ishmael, speaking in a low, calm tone, inquired:

"How long did you remain in that dungeon, Katie?"

"'Deed, Marse Ishmael, chile, I dunno; cause, you see, I hadn't no ways o' keepin' 'count o' de time; for, you see, noonday was jus' as dark as midnight in dat den. So how I gwine tell when day broke, or when night come ag'in? or how many days broke, or how many nights come?"

"Then you have really no idea of how long you remained there?"

"Not a bit! 'Cause, you see, Marse Ishmael, 'pears to me, judging by my feelin's, as I must a stayed dere about seben years. But den I don't s'pose I stayed dat long neider, 'cause I know I nebber had nothin' to eat nor drink all de time I was dere; which, you know I couldn't a' fasted seben years, down dere, could I?"

"Not with safety to life and health, Katie," smiled Ishmael.

"Well, den, if it wasn't seben years, it was as long as ebber anybody could lib dere a-fastin'!"

"How did you get out at last, Katie?"

"Well, now, Marse Ishmael, begging of your pardon, dat was the curiousest t'ing of all! I dunno no more how I come out'n dat dark den, nor de man in de moon! I t'ink it was witchcraft and debbilment, dat's what I t'ink," whispered Katie, rolling her eyes mysteriously.

"Tell us what you do know, however," said Ishmael.

"Well, all I know is jus' dis: I had to keep my eyes open day and night to dribe de rats away. And tired and sleepy as I was, I dar'n't go to sleep, for fear as dey would 'vour me alibe. Last, hows'eber, I was so dead tired, and so dead sleepy, dat I couldn't keep awake no longer, and so I fell fas' asleep, and now, Marse Ishmael, listen, 'cause I gwine to tell you somethin' wery 'stonishin'! Sure as I'm a-libbin' 'oman, standin' here afore your eyes, when I drapped asleep I was in dat dark den, unner de groun', and when I waked up I was in a ship sailin' on de big sea! Dere! you may beliebe me or not, as you choose, but dat is de trufe!"

Judge Merlin and Ishmael exchanged glances and then the latter said:

"The case is a perfectly clear one to me, sir. While she slept she was made to inhale chloroform, and while under its influence she was conveyed from her prison to the ship, very likely a smuggler; and was brought here and sold for a slave."

"Dere! dere! If Marse Ishmael wort aint hit de nail right on de head! To be sure it mus' a been chloe-fawn! And 'pears to me I has a faint membry as how I was dreaming o' de same sweet scents and silver bells and rosy lights as I had 'sperienced once afore. To be sure it mus' a been chloe-fawn! And as for de rest, Marse Ishmael, it is all true as gospel! Sure 'nough, dey did fetch me to dis island and dey did sell me for a slabe," said old Katie.

"But hadn't you a tongue in your head? Couldn't you have told the people here that you were free?" demanded Judge Merlin impatiently.