This is its cause, only partially: there is something besides.

Confused, half-frenzied, Jessie continues to cry out:

"My sister! Save her! save her!"

"We'll try; show us where she is," respond several.

"Yonder—there—under that tree. She was in its branches above, then dropped down upon the water. I heard the plunge, but did not see her after. She has gone to the bottom. Merciful heavens! O Helen! where are you?"

The people are puzzled by these incoherent speeches—both the passengers above, and the boatmen on the under-deck. They stand as if spell-bound.

Fortunately, one of the former has retained presence of mind, and along with it coolness. It is the young planter, Dupre. He stays not for the end of her speech, but springing over the guards, swims towards the spot pointed out.

"Brave fellow!" is the thought of Jessie Armstrong, admiration for her lover almost making her forget her sister's peril.

She stands, as every one else upon the steamer, watching with earnest eyes. Hers are more; they are flashing with feverish excitement, with glances of anxiety—at times the fixed gaze of fear.

No wonder at its being so. The moon has sunk to the level of the tree-tops, and the bosom of the river is in dark shadow; darker by the bank where the boat is now drifting. But little chance to distinguish an object in the water—less for one swimming upon its surface. And the river is deep, its current rapid, the "reach" they are in, full of dangerous eddies. In addition, it is a spot infested, as all know—the favourite haunt of that hideous reptile the alligator, with the equally-dreaded gar-fish—the shark of the South-western rivers. All these things are in Jessie Armstrong's thoughts.

Amidst these dangers are the two dearest to her on earth; her sister, her lover. Not strange that her apprehension is almost an agony!

Meanwhile the steamer's boat has been manned, and set loose as quickly as could be done. It is rowed towards the spot, where the swimmer was last seen; and all eyes are strained upon it—all ears listening to catch any word of cheer.

Not long have they to listen. From the shadowed surface comes the shout, "Saved!"

Then, a rough boatman's voice, saying:

"All right! We've got 'em both. Throw us a rope."

It is thrown by ready hands, after which is heard the command, "Haul in!"

A light, held high upon the steamer, flashes its beams down into, the boat. Lying along its thwarts can be perceived a female form, in a dress once white, now discoloured and dripping. Her head is held up by a man, whose scant garments show similarly stained.

It is Helen Armstrong, supported by Dupre.

She appears lifeless, and the first sight of her draws anxious exclamations from those standing on the steamer. Her sister gives out an agonised cry; while her father trembles on taking her into his arms, and totters as he carries her to her state-room—believing he bears but a corpse!

But no! She breathes; her pulse beats; her lips move in low murmur; her bosom's swell shows sign of returning animation.

By good fortune there chances to be a medical man among the passengers; who, after administering restoratives, pronounces her out of danger.

The announcement causes universal joy on board the boat—crew and passengers alike sharing it.

With one alone remains a thought to sadden. It is Jessie: her heart is sore with the suspicion, that her sister has attempted suicide!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE SLEEP OF THE ASSASSIN.

On the night after killing Clancy, Richard Darke does not sleep soundly—indeed scarce at all.

His wakefulness is not due to remorse; there is no such sentiment in his soul. It comes from two other causes, in themselves totally, diametrically distinct; for the one is fear, the other love.

While dwelling on the crime he has committed, he only dreads its consequences to himself; but, reflecting on what led him to commit it, his dread gives place to dire jealousy; and, instead of repentance, spite holds possession of his heart. Not the less bitter, that the man and woman who made him jealous can never meet more. For, at that hour, he knows Charles Clancy to be lying dead in the dank swamp; while, ere dawn of the following day, Helen Armstrong will be starting upon a journey which must take her away from the place, far, and for ever.

The only consolation he draws from her departure is, that she, too, will be reflecting spitefully and bitterly as himself. Because of Clancy not having kept his appointment with her; deeming the failure due to the falsehood by himself fabricated—the story of the Creole girl.

Withal, it affords him but scant solace. She will be alike gone from him, and he may never behold her again. Her beauty will never belong to his rival; but neither can it be his, even though chance might take him to Texas, or by design he should proceed thither. To what end should he? No more now can he build castles in the air, basing them on the power of creditor over debtor. That bubble has burst, leaving him only the reflection, how illusory it has been. Although, for his nefarious purpose, it has proved weak as a spider's web, it is not likely Colonel Armstrong will ever again submit himself to be so ensnared. Broken men become cautious, and shun taking credit a second time.

And yet Richard Darke does not comprehend this. Blinded by passion, he cannot see any impossibility, and already thoughts of future proceedings begin to flit vaguely through his mind. They are too distant to be dwelt upon now. For this night he has enough to occupy heart and brain—keeping both on the rack and stretch, so tensely as to render prolonged sleep impossible. Only for a few seconds at a time does he know the sweet unconsciousness of slumber; then, suddenly starting awake, to be again the prey of galling reflections.

Turn to which side he will, rest his head on the pillow as he may, two sounds seem ever ringing in his ears—one, a woman's voice, that speaks the denying word, "Never!"—the other, a dog's bark, which seems persistently to say, "I demand vengeance for my murdered master!"

If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and jealous fancies chase one another through the assassin's soul, on the second it is different. Jealousy has no longer a share in his thoughts, fear having full possession of them. And no trifling fear of some far off danger, depending on chances and contingencies, but one real and near, seeming almost certain. The day's doings have gone all against him. The behaviour of Clancy's hound has not only directed suspicion towards him, but given evidence, almost conclusive, of his guilt; as though the barking of the dumb brute were words of truthful testimony, spoken in a witness-box!

The affair cannot, will not, be allowed to rest thus. The suspicions of the searchers will take a more definite shape, ending in accusation, if not in the actual deed of his arrest. He feels convinced of this.

Therefore, on this second night, it is no common apprehension which keeps him awake, but one of the intensest kind, akin to stark terror. For, added to the fear of his fellow man, there is something besides—a fear of God; or, rather of the Devil. His soul is now disturbed by a dread of the supernatural. He saw Charles Clancy stretched dead, under the cypress—was sure of it, before parting from the spot. Returning to it, what beheld he?

To him, more than any other, is the missing body a mystery. It has been perplexing, troubling him, throughout all the afternoon, even when his blood was up, and nerves strung with excitement. Now, at night, in the dark, silent hours, as he dwells ponderingly upon it, it more than perplexes, more than troubles—it awes, horrifies him.

In vain he tries to compose himself, by shaping conjectures based on natural causes. Even these could not much benefit him; for, whether Clancy be dead or still living—whether he has walked away from the ground, or been carried from it a corpse—to him, Darke, the danger will be almost equal. Not quite. Better, of course, if Clancy be dead, for then there will be but circumstantial evidence against, and, surely, not sufficient to convict him?

Little suspects he, that in the same hour, while he is thus distractedly cogitating, men are weighing evidence he knows not of; or that, in another hour, they will be on the march to make him their prisoner.

For all his ignorance of it, he has a presentiment of danger, sprung from the consciousness of his crime. This, and no sentiment of remorse, or repentance, wrings from him the self-interrogation, several times repeated:—

"Why the devil did I do it?"

He regrets the deed, not because grieving at its guilt, but the position it has placed him in—one of dread danger, with no advantage derived, nothing to compensate him for the crime. No wonder at his asking, in the name of the Devil, why he has done it!

He is being punished for it now; if not through remorse of conscience, by coward craven fear. He feels what other criminals have felt before— what, be it hoped, they will ever feel—how hard it is to sleep the sleep of the assassin, or lie awake on a murderer's bed.

On the last Richard Darke lies; since this night he sleeps not at all. From the hour of retiring to his chamber, till morning's dawn comes creeping through the window, he has never closed eye; or, if so, not in the sweet oblivion of slumber.

He is still turning upon his couch, chafing in fretful apprehension, when daylight breaks into his bedroom, and shows its shine upon the floor. It is the soft blue light of a southern morn, which usually enters accompanied by bird music—the songs of the wild forest warblers mingling with domestic voices not so melodious. Among these the harsh "screek" of the guinea-fowl; the more sonorous call of the turkey "gobbler;" the scream of the goose, always as in agony; the merrier cackle of the laying hen, with the still more cheerful note of her lord—Chanticleer.

All these sounds hears Dick Darke, the agreeable as the disagreeable. Both are alike to him on this morning, the second after the murder.

Far more unpleasant than the last are some other sounds which salute his ear, as he lies listening. Noises which, breaking out abruptly, at once put an end to the singing of the forest birds, and the calling of the farm-yard fowls.

They are of two kinds; one, the clattering of horses' hoofs, the other, the clack and clangour of men's voices. Evidently there are several, speaking at the same time, and all in like tone—this of anger, of vengeance!

At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently drawing nigh.

Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudly reverberating from its walls.

The assassin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows he what the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it.

Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches the window—cautiously, because in fear.

His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almost refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score of armed horsemen, and hears them angrily discoursing. One at their head he knows to be the Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, and behind a brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he has reason to believe will be his most resolute accusers.

He has no time to discriminate; for, soon as entering the enclosure, the horsemen dismount, and make towards the door of the dwelling.

In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of his sleeping chamber, demanding admission.

No use denying them, as its occupant is well aware—not even to ask—

"Who's there?"

Instead, he says, in accent tremulous—

"Come in."

Instantly after, he sees the door thrown open, and a form filling up its outlines—the stalwart figure of a Mississippi sheriff; who, as he stands upon the threshold, says, in firm voice, with tone of legal authority:

"Richard Darke, I arrest you!"

"For what?" mechanically demands the culprit, shivering in his shirt.

"For the murder of Charles Clancy!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE COON-HUNTER CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN.

On the night preceding Richard Darke's arrest, another man, not many rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half his customary measure of sleep.

This is the coon-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause is conscience; though his crime is comparatively a light one, and should scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were he a hardened sinner; but Blue Bill is the very reverse; and though, at times, cruel to "coony," he is, in the main, merciful, his breast overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

On the night succeeding his spoilt coon-chase, he has slept sound enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides, he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or of any one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry words, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; the other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing past in such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragical termination.

But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture; and, hoping the denouement might not be so bad as at first deemed, neither was he so alarmed as to let it interfere with his night's slumbers.

In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes abroad to his day's work, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret so momentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang—his laugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantation fields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wonted cheerfulness.

Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches the place where the slaves are at work, that a man has been murdered—this, Charles Clancy—the coon-hunter, in common with the rest of the gang, throws down his hoe; all uniting in a cry of sympathetic sorrow. For all of them know young "Massr Clancy;" respecting, many of them loving him. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, and accost them in kindly words.

The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from that moment, though their task has to be continued, there is no more cheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, or carried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel blades clink against an occasional "donick."

But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill is speechless from another and different cause. They only hear that young Massr Clancy has been killed—murdered, as the report says—while he knows how, when, where, and by whom. The knowledge gives him double uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, for Charles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasons for having them.

If by any sinister chance Massr Dick should get acquainted with the fact of his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he, Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never give testimony.

In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himself by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury the secret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred within the bosom of his better half.

This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; which causes him some anxiety. The coon-hunter can trust his wife's affections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may say something in the "quarter" to compromise him. A word—the slightest hint of what has happened—may lead to his being questioned, and confessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected.

No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air of abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, often chopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers are not in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the cause.

He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back to the "big house."

Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, he imparts to her a renewed caution, to "keep dark on dat ere seerous subjeck."

At supper, the two talk over the events of the day—Phoebe being the narrator. She tells him of all that has happened—of the search, and such incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of the Darkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since having returned home. She adds, of her own observation, that Massr Dick looked "berry scared-like, an' white in de cheeks as a ole she-possum."

"Dats jess de way he oughter look," is the husband's response.

After which they finish their frugal meal, and once more retire to rest.

But on this second night, the terrible secret shared by them, keeps both from sleeping. Neither gets so much as a wink.

As morning dawns, they are startled by strange noises in the negro quarter. These are not the usual sounds consequent on the uprising of their fellow-slaves—a chorus of voices, in jest and jocund laughter. On the contrary, it is a din of serious tone, with cries that tell of calamity.

When the coon-hunter draws—back his door, and looks forth, he sees there is commotion outside; and is soon told its cause. One of his fellow-bondsmen, coming forward, says:—

"Massr Dick am arrested by de sheriff. Dey've tuk 'im for de murder ob Massr Charl Clancy."

The coon-hunter rushes out, and up to the big house.

He reaches it in time to see Richard Darke set upon a horse, and conducted away from the place, with a man on each side, guarding him. All know that he goes a prisoner.

With a sense of relief, Blue Bill hastens back to his own domicile, where lie communicates what has happened to the wife anxiously waiting.

"Phoebe, gal," he adds, in a congratulatory whisper, "dar ain't no longer so much reezun for us to hab fear. I see Sime Woodley mong de men; and dis nigger know dat he'll gub me his purtecshun, whatsomever I do. So I'se jess made up my mind to make a clean bress ob de hul ting, and tell what I heern an' see, besides deliverin' up boaf dat letter an' picter. What's yar view ob de matter? Peak plain, and doan be noways mealy-moufed 'bout it."

"My views is den, for de tellin' ob de troof. Ole Eph Darke may flog us till dar ain't a bit o' skin left upon our bare backs. I'll take my share ob de 'sponsibility, an a full half ob de noggin'. Yes, Bill, I'se willin' to do dat. But let de troof be tole—de whole troof, an' nuffin but de troof."

"Den it shall be did. Phoebe, you's a darlin'. Kiss me, ole gal. If need be, we'll boaf die togedder."

And their two black faces come in contact, as also their bosoms; both beating with a humanity that might shame whiter skins.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

AN UNCEREMONIOUS SEARCH.

Arrested, Richard Darke is taken to jail. This not in Natchez, but a place of less note; the Court-house town of the county, within the limits of which lie the Darke and Armstrong plantations. He is there consigned to the custody of Joe Harkness, jailer.

But few, who assisted at the arrest, accompany him to the place of imprisonment; only the Deputy, and the brace of constables.

The sheriff himself, with the others, does not leave Ephraim Darke's premises, till after having given them a thorough examination, in quest of evidence against the accused.

This duty done, without regard to the sensibilities of the owner, who follows them from room to room, now childishly crying—now frantically cursing.

Alike disregarded are his tears and oaths.

The searchers have no sympathy for him in his hour of affliction. Some even secretly rejoice at it.

Ephraim Darke is not a Southerner, pur sang; and, though without the slightest taint of abolitionism—indeed the very opposite—he has always been unpopular in the neighbourhood; alike detested by planter and "poor white." Many of both have been his debtors, and felt his iron hand over them, just as Archibald Armstrong.

Besides, some of these now around his house were present two days before upon Armstrong's plantation; saw his establishment broken up, his goods and chattels confiscated, his home made desolate.

Knowing by whom all this was done, with ill-concealed satisfaction, they now behold the arcana of Ephraim Darke's dwelling exposed to public gaze; himself humiliated, far more than the man he made homeless.

With no more ceremony than was shown in making the arrest, do the sheriff and party explore the paternal mansion of him arrested, rudely ransacking it from cellar to garret; the outbuildings as well, even to the grounds and garden.

Their search is but poorly rewarded. All they get, likely to throw light on the matter of inquiry, is Richard Darke's double-barrelled gun, with the clothes he wore on the day fatal to Clancy. On these there is no blood; but while they are looking for it, something comes under their eyes, almost equally significant of strife.

Through the coat-skirt is a hole, ragged, and recently made. Several pronounce it a bullet-hole; further declaring the ball to have been discharged from a rifle.

For certain, a singular discovery!

But like all the others that have been made, only serving to perplex them. It is rather in favour of the accused; giving colour to the idea, that between him and Clancy there has been a fight, with shots fired from both sides. The question is, "has it been a fair one?"

To negative this, a bit of adjunct evidence is adduced, which goes against the accused. The coat, with the perforated skirt, is not the one worn by him on the day before, when out assisting in the search; while it is that he had on, the day preceding, when Clancy came not home. Ephraim Darke's domestics, on being sternly interrogated, and aside, disclose this fact; unaware how greatly their master may desire them to keep it concealed.

Still, it is not much. A man might have many reasons for changing his coat, especially for the dress of two different days. It would be nothing, but for the conjoint circumstance of the shot through the skirt. This makes it significant.

Another item of intelligence, of still more suspicious nature, is got out of the domestics, whose stern questioners give them no chance to prevaricate. Indeed, terrified, they do not try.

Their young "Massr Dick" had on a different pair of boots the day he went out hunting, from those worn by him, when, yesterday, he went searching.

The latter are in the hands of the sheriff, but the former are missing— cannot be found anywhere, in or about the house!

All search for them proves idle. And not strange it should; since one is in the side-pocket of Sime Woodley's surtout, the other having a like lodgment in that of Ned Heywood.

The two hunters, "prospecting" apart, found the boots thickly coated with mud, concealed under a brush pile, at the bottom of the peach orchard. Even the sheriff does not know what bulges out the coat-skirts of the two backwoodsmen.

Nor is he told there or then. Sime has an object in keeping that secret to himself and his companion; he will only reveal it, when the time comes to make it more available.

The affair of the arrest and subsequent action over, the sheriff and his party retire from the plantation of Ephraim Darke, leaving its owner in a state of frenzied bewilderment.

They go direct to Mrs Clancy's cottage; not to stay there, but as a starting point, to resume the search for the body of her son, adjourned since yester-eve.

They do not tell her of Dick Darke's arrest. She is inside her chamber—on her couch—so prostrated by the calamity already known to her, they fear referring to it.

The doctor in attendance tells them, that any further revelation concerning the sad event may prove fatal to her.

Again her neighbours, now in greater number, go off to the woods, some afoot, others on horseback. As on the day preceding, they divide into different parties, and scatter in diverse directions. Though not till after all have revisited the ensanguined spot under the cypress, and renewed their scrutiny of the stains. Darker than on the day before, they now look more like ink than blood!

The cypress knee, out of which Woodley and Heywood "gouged" the smooth-bore bullet, is also examined, its position noted. Attempts are made to draw inferences therefrom, though with but indifferent success. True, it tells a tale; and, judging by the blood around the bullet-hole, which all of them have seen, a tragic one, though it cannot of itself give the interpretation.

A few linger around the place, now tracked and trodden hard by their going and coming feet. The larger number proceeds upon the search, in scattered parties of six or eight each, carrying it for as many miles around.

They pole and drag the creek near by, as others at a greater distance; penetrate the swamp as far as possible, or likely that a dead body might be carried for concealment. In its dim recesses they discover no body, living or dead, no trace of human being, nought save the solitude-loving heron, the snake-bird, and scaly alligator.

On this second day's quest they observe nothing new, either to throw additional light on the commission of the crime, or assist them in recovering the corpse.

It is but an unsatisfactory report to take back to the mother of the missing man. Perhaps better for her she should never receive it?

And she never does. Before it can reach her ear, this is beyond hearing sound. The thunder of heaven could not awake Mrs Clancy from the sleep into which she has fallen. For it is no momentary unconsciousness, but the cold insensible slumber of Death.

The long-endured agony of ill fortune, the more recent one of widowhood, and, now, this new bereavement of a lost, only son—these accumulated trials have proved too much for her woman's strength, of late fast failing.

When, at evening hour, the searchers, on their return, approach the desolated dwelling, they hear sounds within that speak of some terrible disaster.

On the night before their ears were saluted by the same, though in tones somewhat different. Then the widow's voice was lifted in lamentation; now it is not heard at all.

Whatever of mystery there may be is soon removed. A woman, stepping out upon the porch, and, raising her hand in token of attention, says, in sad solemn voice,—

"Mrs Clancy is dead!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

TELL-TALE TRACKS.

"Mrs Clancy is dead!"

The simple, but solemn speech, makes an impression on the assembled backwoodsmen difficult to be described. All deem it a double-murder; her death caused by that of her son. The same blow has killed both.

It makes them all the more eager to discover the author of this crime, by its consequence twofold; and now, more than ever, do their thoughts turn towards Dick Darke, and become fixed upon him.

As the announcement of Mrs Clancy's death makes complete the events of the day, one might suppose, that after this climax, her neighbours, satisfied nothing more could be done, would return to their own homes.

This is not the custom in the backwoods of America, or with any people whose hearts beat true to the better instincts of humanity. It is only in Old world countries, under tyrannical rule, where these have been crushed out, that such selfishness can prevail.

Nothing of this around Natchez—not a spark of it in the breasts of those collected about that cottage, in which lies the corpse of a woman.

The widow will be waked by men ready to avenge her wrongs.

If friendless and forlorn while living, it is different now she is dead. There is not a man among them but would give his horse, his gun, ay, a slice of his land, to restore her to life, or bring back that of her son.

Neither being now possible, they can only show their sympathy by the punishment of him who has caused the double desolation.

It still needs to know who. After all, it may not be the man arrested and arraigned, though most think it is. But, to be fully convinced, further evidence is wanted; as also a more careful sifting of that already obtained.

As on the night before, a council is convened, the place being the bit of green sward, that, lawn-like, extends from the cottage front to the rail fence of the road. But now the number taking part in it is different. Instead of a half-score, there is nearer a half hundred. The news of the second death has been spreading meanwhile, and the added sympathy causes the crowd to increase.

In its centre soon forms a ring, an open space, surrounded by men, acknowledged as chief on such occasions. They discuss the points of the case; state such incidents and events as are known; recall all circumstances that can be remembered; and inquire into their connection with motives.

It is, in short, a jury, standing, not sitting, on the trial of a criminal case; and, with still greater difference between them and the ordinary "twelve good men and true," in that, unlike these, they are not mere dummies, with a strong inclination to accept the blandishments of the barrister, or give way to the rulings of the judge, too often wrong. On the contrary, men who, in themselves, combine the functions of all three—judge, jury, and counsel—with this triple power, inspired by a corresponding determination to arrive at the truth.

In short it is the court of "Justice Lynch" in session. Every circumstance which has a possible bearing on the case, or can throw light into its dark ambiguity, is called up and considered. The behaviour of the accused himself, coupled with that of the hound, are the strongest points yet appearing against him. Though not the only ones. The bullet extracted from the cypress knee, has been tried in the barrel of his gun, and found to fit exactly. About the other ball, which made the hole through the skirt of his coat, no one can say more than that it came out of a rifle. Every backwoodsman among them can testify to this.

A minor point against the accused man is, his having changed his clothes on the two succeeding days; though one stronger and more significant, is the fact that the boots, known to have been worn by him on the former, are still missing and cannot anywhere be found.

"Can't they, indeed?" asks Sime Woodley, in response to one, who has just expressed surprise at this.

The old hunter has been hitherto holding back; not from any want of will to assist the lynch jury in their investigation, but because, only lately arrived, he has scarce yet entered into the spirit of their proceedings.

His grief, on getting the news of Mrs Clancy's death, for a time holds him in restraint. It is a fresh sorrow; since, not only had her son been long his friend, but in like manner her husband and herself.

In loyal memory of this friendship, he has been making every effort to bring the murderer to justice; and one just ended accounts for his late arrival at the cottage. As on the day before, he and Heywood have remained behind the other searchers; staying in the woods till all these returned home. Yesterday they were detained by an affair of bullets— to-day it is boots. The same that are missing, and about which questions have just been asked, the last by Sime Woodley himself.

In answer to it he continues:—

"They not only kin be foun', but hev been. Hyar they air!"

Saying this, the hunter pulls a boot out of his pocket, and holds it up before their eyes; Heywood simultaneously exposing another—its fellow!

"That's the fut wear ye're in sarch o', I reck'n," pursues Woodley. "'T all eevents it's a pair o' boots belongin' to Dick Darke, an' war worn by him the day afore yesterday. What's more, they left thar marks down on the swamp mud, not a hunderd mile from the spot whar poor Charley Clancy hez got his death shot; an' them tracks war made not a hundred minnits from the time he got it. Now boys! what d'ye think o' the thing?"

"Where did you get the boots?" ask several, speaking at the same time.

"No matter whar. Ye kin all see we've got 'em. Time enuf to tell o' the whar an' the wharf or when it kums to a trial. Tho lookin' in yur faces, fellurs, I shed say it's kim to somethin' o' that sort now."

"It has!" responds one of the jury, in a tone of emphatic affirmation.

"In that case," pursues the hunter, "me an' Ned Heywood are ready to gie sech evidince as we've got. Both o' us has spent good part o' this arternoon collectin' it; an' now it's at the sarvice o' the court o' Judge Lynch, or any other."

"Well then, Woodley!" says a planter of respectability, who by tacit consent is representing the stern terrible judge spoken of. "Suppose the Court to be in session. Tell us all you know."

With alacrity Woodley responds to the appeal; giving his experience, along with it his suspicions and conjectures; not simply as a witness, but more like a counsel in the case. It needs not to say, he is against the accused, in his statement of facts, as the deductions he draws from them. For the hunter has long since decided within himself, as to who killed Clancy.

Heywood follows him in like manner, though with no new matter. His testimony but corroborates that of his elder confrere.

Taken together, or separately, it makes profound impression on the jurors of Judge Lynch; almost influencing them to pronounce an instant verdict, condemnatory of the accused.

If so, it will soon be followed by the sentence; this by execution, short and quick, but sternly terrible!



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE.

While the Lynchers are still in deliberation, the little clock on the mantel strikes twelve, midnight; of late, not oft a merry hour in the cottage of the Clancys; but this night more than ever sad.

Its striking seems the announcement of a crisis. For a time it silences the voices of those conversing.

Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still night air, when a voice is heard; one that has not hitherto taken part in the deliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate.

"Mass Woodley in da?" are the words spoken interrogatively; the question addressed generally to the group gathered in front of the house. "Yes: he's here," simultaneously answer several.

"Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley?" again asks the inquirer at the wicket.

"Sartinly," says the hunter, separating from the others, and striding off towards the entrance.

"I reck'n I know that voice," he adds, on drawing near the gate. "It's Blue Bill, ain't it?"

"Hush, Mass' Woodley! For Goramity's sake doan peak out ma name. Not fo' all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a dead man, shoo."

"Darn it, Bill; what's the matter? Why d'ye talk so mysteerous? Is thar anythin' wrong? Oh! now I think o't, you're out arter time. Never mind 'bout that; I'll not betray you. Say; what hev ye kim for?"

"Foller me, Mass Woodley; I tell yer all. I dasent tay hya, less some ob dem folk see me. Les' go little way from de house, into de wood groun' ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger hab someting say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry patickler. 'Tarn a matter ob life an' def."

Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushes open the gate, and passes out into the road. Then following the negro, who flits like a shadow before him, the two are soon standing among some bushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside.

"Now, what air it?" asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he is well acquainted—having often met him in his midnight rambles.

"Mass Woodley, you want know who kill Mass Charl Clancy?"

"Why, Bill, that's the very thing we're all talkin' 'bout, an' tryin' to find out. In coorse we want to know. But who's to tell us?"

"Dis nigger do dat."

"Air ye in airnest, Bill?"

"So much in earness I ha'n't got no chance get sleep, till I make clean bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe she no let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyun man, an', as ye know, we boaf b'long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now tell ye, de man who kill Charl Clancy was my own massr—de young un— Dick."

"Bill! are you sure o' what ye say?"

"So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an' nuffin but de troof."

"But what proof have ye?"

"Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn't see, I heerd it wif ma ears."

"By the 'tarnal! this looks like clar evydince at last. Tell me, Bill, o' all that you seed an' what you heern?"

"Ya, Mass Woodley, I tell you ebberyting; all de sarkunistances c'nected wif de case."

In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everything the coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of all that occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to such an unsatisfactory termination.

To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at a fixed conclusion, and Bill's revelation is in correspondence with it.

On hearing it, he but says:—

"While runnin' off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it up, Bill? Ye've gob it?"

"Hya's dat eyedentikil dockyment."

The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside.

"All right, Bill! I reck'n this oughter make things tol'ably clur. Now, what d'ye want me to do for yurself?"

"Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I'se needn't tell ye, dat ef ole Eph'm Darke hear wha dis nigger's been, an' gone, an' dud, de life ob Blue Bill wuldn't be wuth a ole coon-skin—no; not so much as a corn-shuck. I'se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night too. I'se get flog to def, sa'tin shoo."

"Yur right thar, I reck'n," rejoins the hunter; then continues, reflectingly, "Yes; you'd be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know on't. Wal, that mustn't be, and won't. So much I kin promise ye, Bill. Yur evydince wouldn't count for nuthin' in a law court, nohow. Tharfor, we won't bring ye forrad; so don't you be skeeart. I guess we shan't wan't no more testymony, as thar ain't like to be any crosskwestenin' lawyers in this case. Now; d'you slip back to yur quarters, and gi'e yurself no furrer consarn. I'll see you don't git into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!"

With this emphatic promise, the old bear-hunter separates from the less pretentious votary of the chase; as he does so giving the latter a squeeze of the hand, which tells him he may go back in confidence to the negro quarter, and sit, or sleep, by the side of his Phoebe, without fear.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

"TO THE JAIL!"

With impatience Judge Lynch and his jurors await the hunter's return. Before his leaving them, they had well-nigh made up their minds to the verdict. All know it will be "Guilty," given unanimously. Woodley's temporary absence will not affect it. Neither the longer time allowed them for deliberation. If this cause change, it will not be to modify, but make more fixed their determination. Still others keep coming up. Like wildfire the news has spread that the mother of the murdered man is herself stricken down. This, acting as a fresh stimulus to sympathy, brings back such of the searchers as had gone home; many starting from beds to which they had betaken themselves after the day's fatigue.

It is past midnight, and the crowd collected around the cottage is greater than ever. As one after another arrives upon the ground they step across the threshold, enter the chamber of death, and look upon the corpse, whose pale face seems to make mute appeal to them for justice. After gazing on it for an instant, their anger with difficulty subdued in the solemn presence of death, each comes out muttering a resolve there shall be both justice and vengeance, many loudly vociferating it with the added emphasis of an oath.

It does not need what Simeon Woodley has in store to incite them to action. Already are they sufficiently inflamed. The furor of the mob, with its mutually maddening effect, gradually growing upon them, permeating their spirits, has reached the culminating point.

Still do they preserve sufficient calmness to wait a little longer, and hear what the hunter may have to say. They take it, he has been called from them on some matter connected with the subject under consideration. At such a time who would dare interrupt their deliberations for any trivial purpose? Although none of them has recognised Blue Bill's voice, they know it to have been that of a negro. This, however, is no reason why he should not have made some communication likely to throw new light on the affair. So, on Woodley's return, once more gathering around him, they demand to hear what it is.

He tells all that has been imparted to him; but without making known the name of his informant, or in any way compromising the brave fellow with a black skin, who has risked life itself by making disclosure of the truth.

To him the old hunter refers in a slight but significant manner. Comprehending, no one presses for more minute explanation.

"He as says all that," Woodley continues, after stating the circumstances communicated by the coon-hunter, "has guv me the letter dropped by Dick Darke; which, as I've tolt, ye, he picked up. Here air the thing itself. Preehaps it may let some new light into the matter; though I guess you'll all agree wi' me, it's clar enough a'ready."

They all do agree. A dozen voices have declared, are still declaring that. One now cries out—

"What need to talk any more? Charley Clancy's been killed—he's been murdered. An' Dick Darke's the man that did it!"

It is not from any lack of convincing evidence, but rather a feeling of curiosity, that prompts them to call for the reading of the letter, which the hunter now holds conspicuously in his hand. Its contents may have no bearing upon the case. Still it can be no harm to know what they are.

"You read it, Henry Spence! You're a scholart, an' I ain't," says Woodley, handing the letter over to a young fellow of learned look—the schoolmaster of the settlement.

Spence, stepping close up to the porch—into which some one has carried a candle—and holding the letter before the light, first reads the superscription, which, as he informs them, is in a lady's handwriting.

"To Charley Clancy" it is.

"Charles Clancy!"

Half a score voices pronounce the name, all in a similar tone—that of surprise. One interrogates,—

"Was that letter dropped by Dick Darke?"

"It was," responds Woodley, to whom the question is addressed.

"Have patience, boys!" puts in the planter, who represents Justice Lynch; "don't interrupt till we hear what's in it."

They take the hint, and remain silent.

But when the envelope is laid open, and a photograph drawn out, showing the portrait of a young lady, recognised by all as a likeness of Helen Armstrong, there is a fresh outburst of exclamations which betoken increased surprise; this stronger still, after Spence reads out the inscript upon the picture:

"Helen Armstrong—for him she loves."

The letter is addressed to Charles Clancy; to him the photograph must have been sent. A love-affair between Miss Armstrong and the man who has been murdered! A new revelation to all—startling, as pertinent to the case.—

"Go on, Spence! Give us the contents of the letter!" demands an impatient voice.

"Yes, give them!" adds another. "I reckon we're on the right track now."

The epistle is taken out of the envelope. The schoolmaster, unfolding it, reads aloud:—

"Dear Charles,—

"When we last met under the magnolia, you asked me a question. I told you I would answer it in writing. I now keep my promise, and you will find the answer underneath my own very imperfect image, which I herewith send in closed. Papa has finally fixed the day of our departure from the old home. On Tuesday next we are to set out in search of a new one. Will it ever be as dear as that we are leaving behind? The answer will depend upon—need I say whom? After reading what I have written upon the carte, surely you can guess. There, I have confessed all—all woman can, could, or should. In six little words I have made over to you my heart. Accept them as its surrender!

"And now, Charles, to speak of things prosaic, as in this hard world we are too oft constrained to do. On Tuesday morning—at a very early hour, I believe—a boat will leave Natchez, bound up the Red River. Upon it we travel, as far as Natchitoches. There to remain for some time, while papa is completing preparations for our farther transport into Texas, I am not certain what part of the 'Lone Star' State he will select for our future home. He speaks of a place upon some branch of the Colorado River, said to be a beautiful country; which, you, having been out there, will know all about. In any case, we are to remain for a time, a month or more, in Nachitoches; and there, Carlos mio, I need not tell you, there is a post-office for receiving letters, as also for delivering them. Mind, I say for delivering them! Before we leave for the far frontier, where there may be neither post-office nor post, I shall write you full particulars about our intended 'location'—with directions how to reach it. Need I be very minute? Or can I promise myself, that your wonderful skill as a 'tracker,' of which we've heard, will enable you to discover it? They say Love is blind. I hope, yours will not be so: else you may fail in finding the way to your sweetheart in the wilderness.

"How I go on talking, or rather writing, things I intended to say to you at our next meeting tinder the magnolia—our magnolia! Sad thought this, tagged to a pleasant expectation: for it must be our last interview under the dear old tree. Our last anywhere, until we come together again in Texas—perhaps on some prairie where there are no trees. Well; we shall then meet, I hope, never more to part; and in the open daylight, with no need either of night, or tree-shadows to conceal us. I'm sure father, humbled as he now is, will no longer object. Dear Charles, I don't think he would have done so at any time, but for his reverses. They made him think of—never mind what. I shall tell you all under the magnolia.

"And now, master mine—this makes you so—be punctual! Monday night, and ten o'clock—the old hour. Remember that the morning after? I shall be gone—long before the wild-wood songsters are singing their 'reveille' to awake you. Jule will drop this into our tree post-office this evening—Saturday. As you've told me you go there every day, you'll be sure of getting it in time; and once more I may listen to your flattery, as when you quoted the words of the old song, making me promise to come, saying you would 'show the night flowers their queen.'

"Ah! Charles, how easy to keep that promise! How sweet the flattery was, is, and ever will be, to yours,—

"Helen Armstrong."

"And that letter was found on Dick Darke?" questions a voice, as soon as the reading has come to an end.

"It war dropped by him," answers Woodley; "and tharfor ye may say it war found on him."

"You're sure of that, Simeon Woodley?"

"Wal, a man can't be sure o' a thing unless he sees it. I didn't see it myself wi' my own eyes. For all that, I've had proof clar enough to convince me; an' I'm reddy to stan' at the back o' it."

"Damn the letter!" exclaims one of the impatient ones, who has already spoken in similar strain; "the picture, too! Don't mistake me, boys. I ain't referrin' eyther to the young lady as wrote it, nor him she wrote to. I only mean that neither letter nor picture are needed to prove what we're all wantin' to know, an' do know. They arn't nor warn't reequired. To my mind, from the fust go off, nothin' ked be clarer than that Charley Clancy has been killed, cepting as to who killed him— murdered him, if ye will; for that's what's been done. Is there a man on the ground who can't call out the murderer?"

The interrogatory is answered by a unanimous negative, followed by the name, "Dick Darke."

And along with the answer commences a movement throughout the crowd. A scattering with threats heard—some muttered, some spoken aloud—while men are observed looking to their guns, and striding towards their horses; as they do so, saying sternly,—

"To the jail!"

In ten minutes after both men and horses are in motion moving along the road between Clancy's cottage and the county town. They form a phalanx, if not regular in line of march, terribly imposing in aspect.

Could Richard Darke, from inside the cell where he is confined, but see that approaching cavalcade, hear the conversation of those who compose it, and witness their angry gesticulations, he would shake in his shoes, with trembling worse than any ague that ever followed fever.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A SCHEME OF COLONISATION.

About two hundred miles from the mouth of Red River—the Red of Louisiana—stands the town of Natchitoches. The name is Indian, and pronounced as if written "Nak-e-tosh." Though never a populous place, it is one of peculiar interest, historically and ethnologically. Dating from the earliest days of French and Spanish colonisation, on the Lower Mississippi, it has at different periods been in possession of both these nations; finally falling to the United States, at the transfer of the Louisiana territory by Napoleon Bonaparte. Hence, around its history is woven much of romantic interest; while from the same cause its population, composed of many various nationalities, with their distinctive physical types and idiosyncracies of custom, offers to the eye of the stranger a picturesqueness unknown to northern towns. Placed on a projecting bluff of the river's bank, its painted wooden houses, of French Creole fashion, with "piazzas" and high-pitched roofs, its trottoirs brick-paved, and shaded by trees of sub-tropical foliage— among them the odoriferous magnolia, and melia azedarach, or "Pride of China,"—these, in places, completely arcading the street—Natchitoches has the orthodox aspect of a rus in urbe, or urbs in rure, whichever way you wish it.

Its porticoes, entwined with parasites, here and there show stretches of trellis, along which meander the cord-like tendrils of bignonias, aristolochias, and orchids, the flowers of which, drooping over windows and doorways, shut out the too garish sunlight, while filling the air with fragrance. Among these whirr tiny humming birds, buzz humble bees almost as big, while butterflies bigger than either lazily flout and flap about on soft, silent wing.

Such sights greet you at every turning as you make promenade through the streets of Natchitoches.

And there are others equally gratifying. Within these same trellised verandahs, you may observe young girls of graceful mien, elegantly apparelled, lounging on cane rocking-chairs, or perhaps peering coyly through the half-closed jalousies, their eyes invariably dark brown or coal black, the marble forehead above surmounted with a chevelure in hue resembling the plumage of the raven. For most of these demoiselles are descended from the old colonists of the two Latinic races; not a few with some admixture of African, or Indian. The flaxen hair, blue eyes, and blonde complexion of the Northland are only exceptional appearances in the town of Natchitoches.

Meet these same young ladies in the street, it is the custom, and comme il faut, to take off your hat, and make a bow. Every man who claims to be a gentleman does this deference; while every woman, with a white skin, expects it. On whichever side the privilege may be supposed to lie, it is certainly denied to none. The humblest shop clerk or artisan—even the dray-driver—may thus make obeisance to the proudest and daintiest damsel who treads the trottoirs of Natchitoches. It gives no right of converse, nor the slightest claim to acquaintanceship. A mere formality of politeness; and to presume carrying it further would not only be deemed a rudeness, but instantly, perhaps very seriously, resented.

Such is the polished town to which the Belle of Natchez has brought Colonel Armstrong, with his belongings, and from which he intends taking final departure for Texas. The "Lone Star State" lies a little beyond— the Sabine River forming the boundary line. But from earliest time of Texan settlement on the north-eastern side, Natchitoches has been the place of ultimate outfit and departure.

Here the ex-Mississippian planter has made halt, and purposes to remain for a much longer time than originally intended. For a far grander scheme of migration, than that he started out with, is now in his mind. Born upon the Belle of Natchez, it has been gradually developing itself during the remainder of the voyage, and is now complete—at least as to general design.

It has not originated with Archibald Armstrong himself, but one, whom he is soon to call son-in-law. The young Creole, Dupre, entranced with love, has nevertheless not permitted its delirium to destroy all ideas of other kind. Rather has it re-inspired him with one already conceived, but which, for some time, has been in abeyance. He, too, has been casting thoughts towards Texas, with a view to migrating thither. Of late travelling in Europe—more particularly in France—with some of whose noblest families he holds relationship, he has there been smitten with a grand idea, dictated by a spirit of ambition. In Louisiana he is only a planter among planters and though a rich one, is still not satisfied, either with the number of his negroes, or the area of his acres. In Texas, where land is comparatively low priced, he has conceived a project of colonisation, on an extended scale—in short, the founding a sort of Transatlantic seigneurie. For some months has this ambitious dream been brooding in his brain; and now, meeting the Mississippian planter aboard the boat and learning the latter's intentions, this, and the more tender liens late established between, them, have determined Louis Dupre to make his dream a reality, and become one of the migrating party. He will sell his Louisiana houses and lands, but not his slaves. These can be taken to Texas.

Scarce necessary to say, that, on thus declaring himself, he becomes the real chief of the proposed settlement. Whether showing conspicuously in front, or remaining obscurely in the rear, the capitalist controls all; and Dupre is this.

Still, though virtually the controlling spirit, apparently the power remains in the hands of Colonel Armstrong. The young Creole wishes it to appear so. He has no jealousy of him, who is soon to be his second father. Besides, there is another and substantial reason why Colonel Armstrong should assume the chieftainship of the purposed expedition. Though reduced in circumstances, the ex-Mississippian planter is held in high respect. His character commands it; while his name, known throughout all the South-west, will be sure to draw around, and rally under his standard, some of those strong stalwart men of the backwoods, equally apt with axe and rifle, without whom no settlement on the far frontier of Texas would stand a chance of either security, or success.

For it is to the far frontier they purpose going, where land can be got at government prices, and where they intend to purchase it not by the acre, but in square miles—in leagues.

Such is Dupre's design, easy of execution with the capital he can command after disposing of his Red River plantation.

And within a week after his arrival in Natchitoches, he has disposed of it; signed the deed of delivery, and received the money. An immense sum, notwithstanding the sacrifice of a sale requiring quick despatch. On the transfer being completed, the Creole holds in hand a cash capital of $200,000; in those days sufficient not only for the purchase of a large tract of territory, but enough to make the dream of a seignorial estate appear a possible reality.

Not much of the future is he reflecting upon now. If, at times, he cast a chance thought towards it, it may be to picture to himself how his blonde beauty will look as lady suzeraine—chatelaine of the castle to be erected in Texas.

In his fancy, no doubt, he figures her as the handsomest creature that ever carried keys at her belt.

If these fancies of the future are sweet, the facts of the present are even more so. Daring their sojourn in Natchitoches the life of Louis Dupre and Jessie Armstrong is almost a continuous chapter of amorous converse and dalliance; left hands mutually clasped, right ones around waists, or playing with curls and tresses; lips at intervals meeting in a touch that intoxicates the soul—the delicious drunkenness of love, from which no one need ever wish to get sober.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

NEWS FROM NATCHEZ.

While thus pleasantly pass the days with Colonel Armstrong's younger daughter, to the elder they are drear and dark. No love lights up the path of her life, no sun shines upon it; nothing save shadow and clouds.

More than a week has elapsed since their arrival in Natchitoches, and for much of this time has she been left alone. Love, reputed a generous passion, is of all the most selfish. Kind to its own chosen, to others it can be cruel; often is, when the open exhibition of its fervid zeal recalls the cold neglect, it may be, making their misery.

Not that Jessie Armstrong is insensible to the sufferings of her sister. On the contrary, she feels for—all that sister can—on occasions tries to comfort her, by words such as she has already spoken, beseeching her to forget—to pluck the poison from out her heart.

Easy to counsel thus, for one in whose heart there is no poison; instead a honeyed sweetness, almost seraphic. She, who this enjoys can ill understand the opposite; and, Jessie, benighted with her own bliss, gives less thought to the unhappiness of Helen. Even less than she might, were it more known to her. For the proud elder sister keeps her sorrow to herself, eschewing sympathy, and scarce ever recurring to the past. On her side the younger rarely refers to it. She knows it would cause pain. Though once a reference to it has given pleasure to herself; when Helen explained to her the mystery of that midnight plunge into the river. This, shortly after its occurrence; soon as she herself came to a clear comprehension of it. It was no mystery after all. The face seen among the cypress tops was but the fancy of an overwrought brain; while the spectral arms were the forking tines of a branch, which, catching upon the boat, in rebound had caught Helen Armstrong, first raising her aloft, then letting her drop out of their innocent, but withal dangerous, embrace.

An explanation more pleasing to Jessie than she cared to let Helen know; since it gave the assurance that her sister had no thought of self-destruction. She is further comforted by the reflection, that Helen has no need to repine, and the hope it may not be for long. Some other and truer lover will replace the lost false one, and she will soon forget his falsehood. So reasons the happy heart. Indeed, judging by what she sees, Jessie Armstrong may well come to this conclusion. Already around her sister circle new suitors; a host seeking her hand. Among them the best blood of which the neighbourhood can boast. There are planters, lawyers, members of the State Assembly—one of the General Congress—and military men, young officers stationed at Fort Jessup, higher up the river; who, forsaking the lonely post, occasionally come down on a day's furlough to enjoy the delights of town life, and dip a little into its dissipations.

Before Helen Armstrong has been two weeks in Natchitoches she becomes, what for over two years she has been in Natchez—its belle. The "bloods" toast her at the drinking bar, and talk of her over the billiard table.

Some of them too much for their safety, since already two or three duels have occurred on her account—fortunately without fatal termination.

Not that she has given any of them cause to stand forth as her champion; for not one can boast of having been favoured even with a smile. On the contrary, she has met their approaches if not frowningly, at least with denying indifference. All suspect there is un ver—rongeur—a worm eating at her heart; that she suffers from a passion of the past. This does not dismay her Natchitoches adorers, nor hinder them from continuing their adoration. On the contrary it deepens it; her indifference only attracting them, her very coldness setting their hot southern hearts aflame, maddening them all the more.

She is not unconscious of the admiration thus excited. If she were, she would not be woman. But also, because being a true woman, she has no care for, and does not accept it. Instead of oft showing herself in society to receive homage and hear flattering speeches, she stays almost constantly within her chamber—a little sitting-room in the hotel, appropriated to herself and sister.

For reasons already known, she is often deprived of her sister's company; having to content herself with that of her mulatto maid.

A companion who can well sympathise; for Jule, like herself, has a canker at the heart. The "yellow girl" on leaving Mississippi State has also left a lover behind. True, not one who has proved false—far from it. But one who every day, every hour of his life, is in danger of losing it. Jupe she supposes to be still safe, within the recesses of the cypress swamp, but cannot tell how long his security may continue. If taken, she may never see him more, and can only think of his receiving some terrible chastisement. But she is sustained by the reflection, that her Jupiter is a brave fellow, and crafty as courageous; by the hope he will yet get away from that horrid hiding-place, and rejoin her, in a land where the dogs of Dick Darke can no more scent or assail him. Whatever may be the fate of the fugitive, she is sure of his devotion to herself; and this hinders her from despairing.

She is almost as much alarmed about her young mistress whom she sees grieving, day by day evidently sinking under some secret sorrow.

To her it is not much of a secret. She more than guesses at the cause; in truth, knows it, as it is known to that mistress herself. For the wench can read; and made the messenger of that correspondence carried on clandestinely, strange, if, herself a woman, she should not surmise many things beyond what could be gleaned from the superscription on the exchanged epistles.

She has surmised; but, like her mistress, something wide away from the reality. No wonder at her being surprised at what she sees in a Natchez newspaper—brought to the hotel from a boat just arrived at Natchitoches—something concerning Charles Clancy, very different from that suspected of him. She stays not to consider what impression it may produce on the mind of the young lady. Unpleasant no doubt; but a woman's instinct whispers the maid, it will not be worse than the agony her mistress is now enduring.

Entering the chamber, where the latter is alone, she places the paper in her hands, saying: "Missy Helen, here's a newspaper from Natchez, brought by a boat just arrived. There's something in it, I think, will be news to you—sad too."

Helen Armstrong stretches forth her hand, and takes hold of the sheet. Her fingers tremble, closing upon it; her whole frame, as she searches through its columns.

At the same time her eyes glow, burn, almost blaze, with a wild unnatural light—an expression telling of jealousy roused, rekindled, in a last spurt of desperation. Among the marriage notices she expects to see that of Charles Clancy with a Creole girl, whose name is unknown to her. It will be the latest chapter, climax and culminating point, of his perfidy!

Who could describe the sudden revulsion of thought; what pen depict the horror that sweeps through her soul; or pencil portray the expression of her countenance, as, with eyes glaring aghast, she rests them on a large type heading, in which is the name "Charles Clancy?"

For, the paragraph underneath tells not of his marriage, but his murder!

Not the climax of his perfidy, as expected, but of her suffering. Her bosom late burning with indignant jealousy, is now the prey of a very different passion.

Letting the paper fall to the floor, she sinks back into her chair, her heart audibly beating—threatening to beat no more.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

SPECTRES IN THE STREET.

Colonel Armstrong is staying at the "Planters' House," the chief hotel in the town of Natchitoches. Not a very grand establishment, nevertheless. Compared with such a princely hostelry as the "Langham" of London, it would be as a peasant's hut to a palace. Withal, in every way comfortable; and what it may lack in architectural style is made up in natural adornment; a fine effect, produced by trees surrounding and o'ershading it.

A hotel of the true Southern States type: weather-board walls, painted chalk-white, with green Venetian shutters to the windows; a raised verandah—the "piazza"—running all around it; a portion of this usually occupied by gentlemen in white linen coats, sky-blue "cottonade" pants, and Panama hats, who drink mint-juleps all day long; while another portion, furnished with cane rocking-chairs, presents a certain air of exclusiveness, which tells of its being tabooed to the sterner sex, or more particularly meant for ladies.

A pleasant snuggery this, giving a good view of the street, while its privacy is secured by a trellis, which extends between the supporting pillars, clustered with Virginia creepers and other plants trained to such service. A row of grand magnolias stands along the brick banquette in front, their broad glabrous leaves effectually fending off the sun; while at the ladies' end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling the indigenous tree both in the beauty of their leaves and the fragrance of their flowers, waft delicious odours into the windows of the chambers adjacent, ever open.

Orange-trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah rail, that one leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden globes, or white wax-like blossoms in all stages of expansion; these beautiful evergreens bearing fruit and flower at the same time.

A pleasant place at all hours this open air boudoir; and none more enjoyable than at night, just after sunset. For then the hot atmosphere has cooled down, and the soft southern breeze coming up from the bosom of the river, stirs the leaves of the lilacs into gentle rustling, and shakes their flower-spikes, scattering sweet incense around. Then the light from street lamps and house windows, gleaming through the foliage, mingles with that of the fire-flies crossing and scintillating like sparks in a pyrotechnic display. Then the tree-crickets have commenced their continuous trill, a sound by no means disagreeable; if it were, there is compensation in the song of the mock-bird, that, perched upon the top of some tall tree, makes the night cheerful with its ever-changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shady retreat, still more congenial to the ears of those who hear them. Oft is it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and their Creole cavaliers, who converse in the low whisperings of love, to them far sweeter than song of thrush, or note of nightingale—words speaking the surrender of a heart, with others signifying its acceptance.

To-night there is nothing of this within the vine-trellised verandah; for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. By the light from street lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through the lilac leaves, from fire-flies hovering and shooting about, it can be seen that both are young, and both beautiful. Of two different types, dark and fair: for they are the two daughters of Archibald Armstrong.

As said, they are alone, nor man nor woman near. There have been others of both sexes, but all have gone inside; most to retire for the night, now getting late.

Colonel Armstrong is not in the hotel, nor Dupre. Both are abroad on the business of their colonising scheme. About this everything has been arranged, even to selection of the place. A Texan land speculator, who holds a large "grant" upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to be in Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding, and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago abandoned. Dupre has purchased it; and all now remaining to be done is to complete the make-up of the migrating party, and start off to take possession.

Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his future father-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which accounts for the ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at least, would not be long left to herself. If within the hotel, Dupre would certainly be by the side of his Jessie.

The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with eyes bent upon the street. They have been conversing, but have ceased. As usual, the younger has been trying to cheer the elder, still sad, though now from a far different cause. The pain at her heart is no longer that of jealousy, but pure grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natchez newspaper has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancy of all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him.

But, oh! such an eclaircissement! Obtained at the expense of a life dear to her as her own—dearer now she knows he is dead!

The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the murder. It bears date but two days subsequent, and must have been issued subsequent to Mrs Clancy's death, as it speaks of this event having occurred.

It would be out at an early hour that same morning.

In epitome its account is: that a man is missing, supposed to be murdered; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is being made for his body, not yet found. That the son of a well-known planter, Ephraim Darke, himself called Richard, has been arrested on suspicion, and lodged in the county jail; and, just as the paper is going to press, it has received the additional intelligence, that the mother of the murdered man has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunate son to the "bourne from which no traveller returns."

The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged, in by the south-western journals. It is accompanied by comments and conjectures as to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read her own name, with the contents of that letter addressed to Clancy, but proved to have been in the possession of Darke. Though given only in epitome—for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but only had account of it from him who furnished the report—still to Helen Armstrong is the thing painfully compromising. All the world will now know the relations that existed between her and Charles Clancy. What would she care were he alive? And what need she, now he is dead?

She does not care—no. It is not this that afflicts her. Could she but bring him to life again, she would laugh the world to scorn, brave the frowns of her father, to prove herself a true woman by becoming the wife of him her heart had chosen for a husband.

"It cannot be; he is dead—gone—lost for ever!"

So run her reflections, as she stands in silence by her sister's side, their conversation for the time suspended. Oppressed by their painfulness, she retires a seep, and sinks down into one of the chairs; not to escape the bitter thoughts—for she cannot—but to brood on them alone.

Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into the street. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returning to the hotel.

People are passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in hurried step, telling of early habits and a desire to get home.

One catching her eye, causes her to tremble; one for whom she has a feeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of large stature is seen loitering under the shadow of a tree, and looking at her as though he would devour her. Even in his figure there is an expression of sinister and slouching brutality. Still more on his face, visible by the light of a lamp which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The young girl does not stay to scrutinise it; but shrinking back, cowers by the side of her sister.

"What's the matter, Jess?" asks Helen, observing her frayed aspect, and in turn becoming the supporter. "You've seen something to vex you? something of—Luis?"

"No—no, Helen. Not him."

"Who then?"

"Oh, sister! A man fearful to look at. A great rough fellow, ugly enough to frighten any one. I've met him several times when out walking, and every time it's made me shudder."

"Has he been rude to you?"

"Not exactly rude, though something like it. He stares at me in a strange way. And such horrid eyes! They're hollow, gowlish like an alligator's. I'd half a mind to tell father, or Luis, about it; but I know Luis would go wild, and want to kill the big brute. I saw him just now, standing on the side-walk close by. No doubt he's there still."

"Let me have a look at those alligator eyes."

The fearless elder sister, defiant from very despair, steps out to the rail, and leaning over, looks along the street.

She sees men passing; but no one who answers to the description given.

There is one standing under a tree, but not in the place of which Jessie has spoken; he is on the opposite side of the street. Neither is he a man of large size, but rather short and slight. He is in shadow, however, and she cannot be sure of this.

At the moment he moves off, and his gait attracts her attention; then his figure, and, finally, his face, as the last comes under the lamp-light. They attract and fix it, sending a cold shiver through her frame.

It was a fancy her thinking she saw Charles Clancy among the tree-tops. Is it a like delusion, that now shows her his assassin in the streets of Natchitoches? No; it cannot be! It is a reality; assuredly the man moving off is Richard Darke!

She has it on her tongue to cry "murderer!" and raise a "hue and cry;" but cannot. She feels paralysed, fascinated; and stands speechless, not stirring, scarce breathing.

Thus, till the assassin is out of sight.

Then she totters back to the side of her sister, to tell in trembling accents, how she, too, had been frayed by a spectre in the street!



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

THE "CHOCTAW CHIEF."

"You'll excuse me, stranger, for interruptin' you in the readin' o' your newspaper. I like to see men in the way o' acquirin' knowledge. But we're all of us here goin' to licker up. Won't you join?"

The invitation, brusquely, if not uncourteously, extended, comes from a man of middle age, in height at least six feet three, without reckoning the thick soles of his bull-skin boots—the tops of which rise several inches above the knee. A personage, rawboned, and of rough exterior, wearing a red blanket-coat; his trousers tucked into the aforesaid boots; with a leather belt buckled around his waist, under the coat, but over the haft of a bowie-knife, alongside which peeps out the butt of a Colt's revolving pistol. In correspondence with his clothing and equipment, he shows a cut-throat countenance, typical of the State Penitentiary; cheeks bloated as from excessive indulgence in drink; eyes watery and somewhat bloodshot; lips thick and sensual; with a nose set obliquely, looking as if it had received hard treatment in some pugilistic encounter. His hair is of a yellowish clay colour, lighter in tint upon the eyebrows. There is none either on his lips or jaws, nor yet upon his thick hog-like throat; which looks as if some day it may need something stiffer than a beard to protect it from the hemp of the hangman.

He, to whom the invitation has been extended, is of quite a different appearance. In age a little over half that of the individual who has addressed him; complexion dark and cadaverous; the cheeks hollow and haggard, as from sleepless anxiety; the upper lip showing two elongated bluish blotches—the stub of moustaches recently removed; the eyes coal black, with sinister glances sent in suspicious furtiveness from under a broad hat-brim pulled low down over the brow; the figure fairly shaped, but with garments coarse and clumsily fitting, too ample both for body and limbs, as if intended to conceal rather than show them to advantage.

A practised detective, after scanning this individual, taking note of his habiliments, with the hat and his manner of wearing it, would pronounce him a person dressed in disguise—this, for some good reason, adopted. A suspicion of the kind appears to be in the mind of the rough Hercules, who has invited him to "licker up;" though he is no detective.

"Thank you," rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to his knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; "I've just had a drain. I hope you'll excuse me."

"Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o' this tavern is, that all in its bar takes a smile thegither—leastwise on first meeting. So, say what's the name o' yer tipple."

"Oh! in that case I'm agreeable," assents the newspaper reader, laying aside his reluctance, and along with it the paper—at the same time rising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone of apparent frankness: "Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out where there's glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I'm the stranger in this crowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks."

The men thus addressed as "gentlemen" are seven or eight in number; not one of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. So far as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bully in the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell address them as "blackguards," he would be much nearer the mark. Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though of different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like variety in their costumes.

"No—no!" respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen in generosity. "No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us, Mr Quantrell."

"This score's mine!" proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritative voice. "After that anybody as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny! trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me."

The bar-keeper thus appealed to—as repulsive-looking as any of the party upon whom he is called to wait—with that dexterity peculiar to his craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanters containing several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row of tumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing to drink.

And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to his palate.

It is a scene of every-day occurrence, every hour, almost every minute, in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity in this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes place is very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It stands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the "Indian quarter;" sometimes also called "Spanish town"—both name having reference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around are inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites of Spanish extraction—these last the degenerate descendants of heroic soldiers who originally established the settlement.

The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which is depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is known as the "Choctaw Chief," and is kept by a man supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything else; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny," a personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationality as his employer.

The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers; giving them bed, board, and lodging, without asking them any questions, beyond a demand of payment before they have either eaten or slept under its roof. It usually has a goodly number, and of a peculiar kind—strange both in aspect and manners—no one knowing whence they come, or whither bent when taking their departure.

As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town promenaders, in an outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares to inquire into the character of its guests, or aught else relating to it. To those who chance to stray in its direction, it is known as a sort of cheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers— hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on the prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the means to stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having the means, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief.

Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar stands Phil Quantrell—so calling himself—with the men to whose boon companionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared by his introducer, according to the custom of the establishment.

The first drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another round; and then a third is ordered, by some one else, who pays, or promises to pay for it.

A fourth "smile" is insisted upon by another some one who announces himself ready to stand treat; all the liquor, up to this time consumed, being either cheap brandy or "rot-gut" whisky.

Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting under the generous impulse the drink has produced, sings out "Champagne!" a wine which the poorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Choctaw Chief, can plentifully supply.

After this the choice vintage of France, or its gooseberry counterfeit, flows feebly; Johnny with gleeful alacrity stripping off the leaden capsules, twisting the wires, and letting pop the corks. For the stranger guest has taken a wallet from his pocket, which all can perceive to be "chock full" of gold "eagles," some reflecting upon, but saying nothing about, the singular contrast between this plethoric purse, and the coarse coat out of whose pocket it is pulled.

After all, not much in this. Within the wooden walls of the Choctaw Chief there have been seen many contrasts quite as curious. Neither its hybrid landlord, nor his bar-keeper, nor its guests are addicted to take note—or, at all events make remarks upon—circumstances which elsewhere would seem singular.

Still, is there one among the roystering crowd who does note this; as also other acts done, and sayings spoken, by Phil Quantrell in his cups. It is the Colossus who has introduced him to the jovial company, and who still sticks to him as chaperon.

Some of this man's associates, who appear on familiar footing, called him "Jim Borlasse;" others, less free, address him as "Mister Borlasse;" while still others, at intervals, and as if by a slip of the tongue, give him the title "Captain." Jim, Mister, or Captain Borlasse— whichever designation he deserve—throughout the whole debauch, keeps his bloodshot eyes bent upon their new acquaintance, noting his every movement. His ears, too, are strained to catch every word Quantrell utters, weighing its import.

For all he neither says nor does aught to tell of his being thus attentive to the stranger—at first his guest, but now a spendthrift host to himself and his party.

While the champagne is being freely quaffed, of course there is much conversation, and on many subjects. But one is special; seeming more than all others to engross the attention of the roysterers under the roof of the Choctaw Chief.

It is a murder that has been committed in the State of Mississippi, near the town of Natchez; an account of which has just appeared in the local journal of Natchitoches. The paper is lying on the bar-room table; and all of them, who can read, have already made themselves acquainted with the particulars of the crime. Those, whose scholarship does not extend so far, have learnt them at secondhand from their better-educated associates.

The murdered man is called Clancy—Charles Clancy—while the murderer, or he under suspicion of being so, is named Richard Darke, the son of Ephraim Darke, a rich Mississippi planter.

The paper gives further details: that the body of the murdered man has not been found, before the time of its going to press; though the evidence collected leaves no doubt of a foul deed having been done; adding, that Darke, the man accused of it, after being arrested and lodged in the county jail, has managed to make his escape—this through connivance with his jailer, who has also disappeared from the place. Just in time, pursues the report, to save the culprit's neck from a rope, made ready for him by the executioners of Justice Lynch, a party of whom had burst open the doors of the prison, only to find it untenanted. The paper likewise mentions the motive for the committal of the crime—at least as conjectured; giving the name of a young lady, Miss Helen Armstrong, and speaking of a letter, with her picture, found upon the suspected assassin. It winds up by saying, that no doubt both prisoner and jailer have G.T.T.—"Gone to Texas"—a phrase of frequent use in the Southern States, applied to fugitives from justice. Then follows the copy of a proclamation from the State authorities, offering a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of Richard Darke, and five hundred for Joe Harkness—this being the name of the conniving prison-keeper.

While the murder is being canvassed and discussed by the bon-vivants in the bar-room of the Choctaw Chief—a subject that seems to have a strange fascination for them—Borlasse, who has become elevated with the alcohol, though usually a man of taciturn habit, breaks out with an asseveration, which causes surprise to all, even his intimate associates.

"Damn the luck!" he vociferates, bringing his fist down upon the counter till the decanters dance at the concussion; "I'd 'a given a hundred dollars to 'a been in the place o' that fellow Darke, whoever he is!"

"Why?" interrogate several of his confreres, in tones that express the different degrees of their familiarity with him questioned, "Why, Jim?"

"Why, Mr Borlasse?"

"Why, Captain?"

"Why?" echoes the man of many titles, again striking the counter, and causing decanters and glasses to jingle. "Why? Because that Clancy— that same Clancy—is the skunk that, before a packed jury, half o' them yellar-bellied Mexikins, in the town of Nacogdoches, swore I stealed a horse from him. Not only swore it, but war believed; an' got me—me, Jim Borlasse—tied for twenty-four hours to a post, and whipped into the bargain. Yes, boys, whipped! An' by a damned Mexikin nigger, under the orders o' one o' their constables, they call algazeels. I've got the mark o' them lashes on me now, and can show them, if any o' ye hev a doubt about it. I ain't 'shamed to show 'em to you fellows; as ye've all got something o' the same, I guess. But I'm burnin' mad to think that Charley Clancy's escaped clear o' the vengeance I'd sworn again him. I know'd he was comin' back to Texas, him and his. That's what took him out thar, when I met him at Nacogdoches. I've been waitin' and watchin' till he shed stray this way. Now, it appears, somebody has spoilt my plans—somebody o' the name Richard Darke. An', while I envy this Dick Darke, I say damn him for doin' it!"

"Damn Dick Darke! Damn him for doin' it!" they shout, till the walls re-echo their ribald blasphemy.

The drinking debauch is continued till a late hour, Quantrell paying shot for the whole party. Maudlin as most of them have become, they still wonder that a man so shabbily dressed can command so much cash and coin. Some of them are not a little perplexed by it.

Borlasse is less so than any of his fellow-tipplers. He has noted certain circumstances that give him a clue to the explanation; one, especially, which seems to make everything clear. As the stranger, calling himself Phil Quantrell, stands holding his glass in hand, his handkerchief employed to wipe the wine from his lips, and carelessly returned to his pocket, slips out, and fails upon the floor. Borlasse stooping, picks it up, but without restoring it to its owner.

Instead, he retires to one side; and, unobserved, makes himself acquainted with a name embroidered on its corner.

When, at a later hour, the two sit together, drinking a last good-night draught, Borlasse places his lips close to the stranger's ear, whispering as if it were Satan himself who spoke, "Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke!"



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE MURDERER UNMASKED.

A rattlesnake sounding its harsh "skirr" under the chair on which the stranger is sitting could not cause him to start up more abruptly than he does, when Borlasse says:—

"Your name is not Philip Quantrell: 'tis Richard Darke!"

He first half rises to his feet, then sits down again; all the while trembling in such fashion, that the wine goes over the edge of his glass, sprinkling the sanded floor.

Fortunately for him, all the others have retired to their beds, it being now a very late hour of the night—near midnight. The drinking "saloon" of the Choctaw Chief is quite emptied of its guests. Even Johnny, the bar-keeper, has gone kitchen-wards to look after his supper.

Only Borlasse witnesses the effect of his own speech; which, though but whispered, has proved so impressive.

The speaker, on his side, shows no surprise. Throughout all the evening he has been taking the measure of his man, and has arrived at a clear comprehension of the case. He now knows he is in the company of Charles Clancy's assassin. The disguise which Darke has adopted—the mere shaving off moustaches and donning a dress of home-wove "cottonade"—the common wear of the Louisiana Creole—with slouch hat to correspond, is too flimsy to deceive Captain Jim Borlasse, himself accustomed to metamorphoses more ingenious, it is nothing new for him to meet a murderer fleeing from the scene of his crime—stealthily, disguisedly making way towards that boundary line, between the United States and Texas—the limit of executive justice.