CHAPTER III.

I. ANTONIO.

The person who came in so suddenly to help the boys extinguish the fire

under the corn-barn, on the night of the robbery, was Antonio, or

Beechnut, as the boys more commonly called him. In order to explain how

he came to be there, we must go back a little in our narrative, and

change the scene of it to Mrs. Henry's house at Franconia, where Antonio

lived.

One morning about a week before the robbery, Phonny, Mrs. Henry's son,

and his cousin Malleville, who was at that time making a visit at his

mother's, were out upon the back platform at play, when they saw Antonio

walking toward the barn.

"Children," said Antonio, "we are going into the field to get a great

stone out of the ground. You may go with us if you like."

"Well;" said Phonny, "come, Malleville, let us go."

So the children followed Antonio to the barn. There was a man there, one

of Mrs. Henry's workmen, called James, who was getting out the oxen.

James drove the oxen into the shed, and there attached them to a certain

vehicle called a drag. This drag was formed of two planks placed side by

side, with small pieces nailed along the sides and at the ends. The drag

was shaped at the front so as to turn up a little, in order that it

might not catch in the ground when drawn along. There was a hole in the

front part of the drag for the end of a chain to be passed through, to

draw the drag by. The end of the chain was fastened by a wooden pin

called a _fid_, which was passed through the hook or one of the links,

and this prevented the chain from being drawn back through the hole

again.

While James was attaching the oxen to the drag, Antonio was putting such

tools and implements upon it as would be required for the work. He put

on an iron bar, an ax, a saw, a shovel, and two spare chains.

"Now, children," said he, "jump on."

So Phonny and Malleville jumped on, and Antonio with them. Antonio stood

in the middle of the drag, while Phonny and Malleville took their places

on each side of him, and held on by his arms. James then started the

oxen along, and thus they went into the field.

"And now, Beechnut," said Malleville, "I wish you would sing me the

little song that Agnes sung when she was dancing on the ice that summer

night."

Phonny laughed aloud at this. "Oh, Malleville!" said he; "there could

not be any ice on a summer night."

"Yes, there could," said Malleville, in a very positive tone, "and there

was. Beechnut told me so."

"Oh, that was only one of Beechnut's stories," said Phonny, "made up to

amuse you."

"Well, I don't care," said Malleville, "I want to hear the song again."

Beechnut had told Malleville a story about the fairy Agnes whom he found

dancing upon a fountain one summer night in the woods, having previously

frozen over the surface of the water with a little silver wand. He had

often sung this song to Malleville, and now she wished to hear it again.

The words of the song, as Beechnut sang them, were as follows:

Peep! peep! chippeda dee.

Playing in the moonlight, nobody to see.

The boys and girls have gone away,

They've had their playtime in the day

And now the night is left for me:

Peep! peep! chippeda dee.

The music was as follows:

[Music:

Peep! Peep! Chip-pe-da-dee!

Playing in the moonlight, no-bod-y to see.

The boys and girls have gone a-way; They've

had their play-time in the day, And now the night is

left to me. Peep! peep! Chip-pe-da-dee!]

When Beechnut had sung the song Malleville said, "Again." She was

accustomed to say "again," when she wished to hear Beechnut go on with

his singing, and as she usually liked to hear such songs a great many

times. Beechnut always continued to sing them, over and over, as long as

she said "again."

Thus Malleville kept him singing Agnes's song in this instance all the

way toward the field.

At length Malleville ceased to say "again," on account of her attention

being attracted to a bridge which she saw before them, and which it was

obvious they were going to cross. It had only logs on the sides of it

for railing. Beyond the bridge the road lay along the margin of a wood.

The stone which James and Antonio were going to get out, was just beyond

the bridge, and almost in the road. When the oxen got opposite to the

stone, James stopped them, and Antonio and the children got off the

drag.

[Illustration: THE DRAG RIDE.]

It was only a small part of the stone that appeared above the ground.

James took the shovel and began to dig around the place, so as to bring

the stone more fully to view, while Antonio went into the wood to cut a

small tree, in order to make a lever of the stem of it. Phonny took the

saw--first asking Antonio's permission to take it--and climbed up into a

large tree near the margin of the wood, where he began to saw off a dead

branch which was growing there, and which may be seen in the picture.

Malleville, in the mean time, sat down upon a square stone which was

lying by the road-side near the wood, and occupied herself sometimes in

watching the operation of digging out the stone, sometimes in looking up

at Phonny, and sometimes in singing the song which Antonio had sung to

her on the way.

Presently Antonio, having obtained his lever, came out into the road

with it, and laid it down by the drag. He looked at the drag in doing

this, and observed that one of the side-pieces had started up, and that

it ought to be nailed down again. He looked up into the tree where

Phonny was sawing, and said:

"Phonny!"

"What!" said Phonny.

"Look up over your head," said Antonio. Phonny looked up.

"Do you see that short branch just above you?"

"This?" said Phonny, putting his hand upon it.

"Yes," said Antonio.

"Yes," said Phonny, "I see it."

"Hang your saw on it," said Antonio.

Phonny did so.

"Now, come down from the tree," said Antonio.

Phonny climbed down as fast as he could, and came to Beechnut.

"Take all the things out of your pocket and put them down on the drag."

Phonny began to take the things out. First came a pocket handkerchief.

Then a knife handle without any blades. Then a fishing line. Then two

old coins and a dark red pebble stone. This exhausted one pocket.--From

the other came a small glass prism, three acorns, and at last two long

nails.

"Ah, that is what I want," said Antonio, taking up the nails. "I thought

you had two nails in your pocket, for I remembered that I gave you two

yesterday. Will you give them back to me again?"

"Yes," said Phonny.

"Now, put the things back in your pocket. I admire a boy that obeys

orders, without stopping to ask why. He waits till the end, and then he

_sees_ why. Now, you can go back to your saw."

But instead of going back to his saw, Phonny seemed just at that instant

to get a glimpse of something which attracted his attention along the

road beyond the bridge, for as soon as he had put his goods and chattels

back in his pockets, he paused a moment, looking in that direction, and

then he set out to run as fast as he could over the bridge. Antonio

looked, and saw that there was a girl coming along, and that Phonny was

running to meet her.

Antonio wondered who it could be.

It proved to be Ellen Linn. When Malleville saw that it was Ellen, she

ran to meet her. She asked her why she did not bring Annie with her.

"I did," said Ellen; "she is at the house. She was tired after walking

so far, and so I left her there."

"I am glad that she has come," said Malleville, "let us go and see her."

"Not just yet," said Ellen. "I will go with you pretty soon."

The fact was that Ellen had come to see Antonio about Rodolphus, and now

she did not know exactly how she should manage to have any conversation

with him alone; and she did not wish to talk before James and all the

rest about the misconduct of her brother. As soon as Antonio saw her, he

went to meet her, and walked with her up to the place where they were at

work, to show her the great stone that they were digging out. Ellen

looked at it a few minutes and asked some questions about it, but her

thoughts were after all upon her brother, and not upon the stone.

Presently she went to the place where Malleville had been sitting, and

sat down there. She thought, perhaps, that Antonio would come there, and

that then she could speak to him.

Phonny climbed up into the tree again, partly to finish his sawing, and

partly to let Ellen Linn see how well he could work in such a high

place. While he was there, Antonio went to the place where Ellen Linn

was sitting, and asked her if she had heard from Rodolphus lately.

"Yes," said Ellen, "and that is the very thing that I came to see you

about. I want to talk with you about Rodolphus."

Ellen said this in a low and desponding voice, and Antonio knew that she

wished to speak to him alone.

"We can not talk very well here," said Antonio, "will it do if I come

and see you about it to-night?"

"Yes," said Ellen, looking up joyfully. "Only I am sorry to put you to

that trouble."

"I will come," said Antonio. "I shall get there about half-past eight."

Pretty soon after this, Ellen Linn went back to the house, and after a

time she and Annie went home. About a quarter past eight that evening,

she went out into the yard and down to the gate to watch for Antonio. At

length she saw him coming. When he reached the house, Ellen walked with

him to the great tree in the middle of the yard, and they both sat down

on the bench by the side of it, while Annie was running about in the

great circular walk, drawing her cart. Here Antonio and Ellen had a long

conversation about Rodolphus. Ellen said that she had heard very

unfavorable accounts of him. She had learned that he had got into bad

company in the town where he now lived, as he had done at home, and that

she was afraid that he was fast going to ruin. She did not know what

could be done, but she thought that perhaps Antonio might go there and

see him, and find out how the case really was, and perhaps do something

to save her brother.

"I will go, at any rate," said Antonio, "and see if any thing can be

done. Perhaps," he continued, "Mr. Kerber has found that he is a

troublesome boy and may be willing to give him up, and then we can get

him another place. However, at all events, I will go and see."

"When can you go?" asked Ellen.

"I can go next Saturday, most conveniently," said Antonio. "Besides if I

go on Saturday I can stay till Monday, and that will give me all of

Sunday to see Rodolphus, when he will of course be at leisure."

So it was arranged that Antonio was to go on Saturday. Ellen requested

him to manage his expedition as privately as possible, for she did not

wish to have her brother's misconduct made known more than was

absolutely necessary. Antonio told her that nobody but Mrs. Henry should

know where he was going, and that he would not even tell her what he was

going for.

That evening Antonio obtained leave of Mrs. Henry to go to the town

where Mr. Kerber lived, on Saturday, and to be gone until Monday. He

told Mrs. Henry that the business on which he was going, was private,

and that it concerned other persons, and that on their account, if she

had confidence enough in him to trust him, he should like to be allowed

to go without explaining what the business was. Mrs. Henry said that she

had perfect confidence in him, and that she did not wish him to explain

the nature of the business. She surmised, however, that it was something

relating to Rodolphus, for she knew about his character and history, and

she recollected Ellen's calling at her house to inquire for Antonio that

morning.

When the Saturday arrived, Antonio began about ten o'clock to prepare

for his journey. He had decided to set out on foot. He thought that he

should get along very comfortably and well without a horse, as he

supposed it would be easy for him to make bargains with the teamsters

and travelers that would overtake him on the road, to carry him a

considerable part of the way. He could have taken a horse as well as not

from Mr. Henry's, but as he was to remain in the place where he was

going over Sunday, he concluded that the expense of keeping the horse

there, if he were to take one, would be more than he would have to pay

to the travelers and teamsters for carrying him along the road.

He told James that he was going away, and that he was not to be back

again until Monday. He did not, however, tell him where he was going.

When he was all ready to set out, he went to his chest and took some

money out of his till--as much as he thought that he should need--and

then went into the parlor to tell Mrs. Henry that he was going.

"Are you all ready, and have you got every thing that you want?" asked

Mrs. Henry.

Antonio said that he had every thing.

"Well, good-by then," said Mrs. Henry. "I wish you a pleasant journey;

and if you find that any thing occurs so that you think it best to stay

longer than Monday, you can do so."

Antonio thanked Mrs. Henry, bade her good-by, and went away.

Antonio stopped at Mrs. Linn's as he passed through the village. He had

promised Ellen that he would call there on his way, to get a letter

which she was going to send, and had told her at what time he should

probably come. He found Ellen waiting for him at the gate. She had a

small parcel in her hand. When Antonio came to the gate she showed him

the parcel, and asked him if he could carry such a large one.

"It is not large at all," said Antonio; "I can carry it just as well as

not."

"It is my little Bible," said she, "and the letter is inside. It is the

Bible that my aunt gave me; but I thought she would be willing that I

should give it to Rodolphus, if she knew--"

Here Ellen stopped, without finishing her sentence, and walked away

toward the house. Antonio looked after her a moment, and then went away

without saying another word.

It was twelve o'clock before he was fairly set out on his journey. He

walked on for about two hours, meeting with various objects of interest

in the way, but without finding any traveler going the same way, to help

him on his journey. At last he came to a place where there were two

girls standing by a well before a farm-house. Antonio, being tired and

thirsty, went up to the well to get a drink.

[Illustration: THE WELL.]

"How far is it from here to Franconia?" said Antonio to the girls.

They looked at him as if surprised, but at first they did not answer.

"Do you know?" said Antonio, speaking again.

"Haven't you just come from Franconia?" said one of the girls.

"Yes," said Antonio.

"Then I should think that you would know yourself," said she.

"No," said Antonio, "I don't know. I have been walking about two hours;

but I don't know how far it is."

"I believe it is about five miles," said the youngest girl.

"Then I have come two miles and a half an hour," said Antonio. "It is

twenty miles more that I have got to go."

Then he made a calculation in his mind, and found that if he should have

to walk all the way, he should not reach the end of his journey till

about eleven o'clock, allowing one hour to stop for supper and rest.

Antonio thanked the girls for his drink of water and then went on.

Pretty soon he saw a large wagon in the road before him. He walked on

fast until he overtook it. He made a bargain with the wagoner to carry

him as far as the wagon was going on his road, which was about ten

miles. This ride rested him very much, but it did not help him forward

at all in respect to time, for the wagon did not travel any faster than

he would have walked.

At length the wagon came to the place where it was to turn off from

Antonio's road; so Antonio paid the man the price which had been agreed

upon, and then took to the road again as a pedestrian.

He walked on about an hour, and then he began to be pretty tired. He

concluded that he would stop and rest and get some supper at the very

next tavern. It was now about half-past seven, and he was yet, as he

calculated, nearly eight miles from the end of his journey. Just then he

heard the sound of wheels behind him, and, on looking round, he saw a

light wagon coming, drawn by a single horse, and with but one man in the

wagon. The wagon was coming on pretty rapidly, but Antonio determined to

stop it as it passed; so he stood at one side of the road, and held up

his hand as a signal, when the wagon came near.

The man stopped. On inquiry Antonio found that he was going directly to

the town where Rodolphus lived. Antonio asked the man what he would ask

to carry him there.

"What may I call your name?" said the man.

"My name is Antonio."

"And my name is Antony," said the man. "Antony. It is a remarkable

coincidence that our names should be so near alike. Get in here with me

and ride on to the tavern, we will see if we can make a trade."

Antonio found Antony a very amusing and agreeable companion. In the end

it was agreed that they should stop at the tavern and have some supper,

and that Antonio should pay for the supper for both himself and Antony,

and in consideration of that, he was to be carried in the wagon to the

end of his journey.

During the supper and afterward, while riding along the road, Antony was

quite inquisitive to learn all about Antonio, and especially to

ascertain what was the cause of his taking that journey. But Antonio

resisted all these attempts, and would give no information whatever in

respect to his business.

They reached the end of their journey about half-past nine o'clock.

Antonio was set down at the tavern, which has already been spoken of as

situated at the head of the lane leading to the corn-barn, where

Rodolphus and the other boys had made their rendezvous. Immediately

after being shown to his room, which it happened was a chamber on the

side of the house which was toward the lane, Antonio came down stairs

and went out. His plan was to proceed directly to Mr. Kerber's house,

hoping to be able to see Rodolphus that evening. He was afraid before he

left the tavern that it might be too late, and that he should find they

had all gone to bed at Mr. Kerber's. He thought, however, that he could

tell whether the family were still up, by the light which he would in

that case see at the windows; and he concluded that if the house should

appear dark, he would not knock at the door, but go back to the tavern,

and wait till the next morning.

The house _was_ dark, and so Antonio, after standing and looking at it a

few moments with a disappointed air, went back to the tavern. He went in

at the door, and went up to his room. It happened that no one saw him go

into the tavern this time, for as there was a very bright moon, and it

shone directly into his chamber-window, he thought that he should not

need a lamp to go to bed by, so he went directly up stairs to his room.

It was now about ten o'clock. Antonio sat down by his window and looked

out. It was a beautiful evening, and he sat some time enjoying the

scene. At length he heard suppressed voices, and looking down he saw

three boys come stealing along round the corner of a fence and enter a

lane. He saw the light of a lantern, too, for he was up so high that he

could look down into it, as it were. He was convinced at once from these

indications that there was something going on that was wrong.

He listened attentively, and thought that he could recognize Rodolphus's

voice, and he was at once filled with apprehension and anxiety. He

immediately took his cap, and went softly down stairs, and out at the

door, and then going round into the lane, he followed the boys down

toward the corn-barn. When they had all got safely in, underneath the

building, he crept up softly to the place, and looking through a small

crack in the boards he saw and heard all that was going on; he overheard

the conversation between the boys about the box, saw them take away the

straw, dig the hole, and bury it, and then had just time to step round

the corner of the barn, and conceal himself, when the boys came out to

see if the way was clear for them to go home. The next moment the light

from the burning straw broke out, and Antonio, without stopping to

think, ran instinctively in among the boys to help them to put out the

fire.

Of course when the boys fled he was left there alone, and he soon found

that it would be impossible for him to extinguish the fire. It spread so

rapidly over the straw and among the boxes, that it was very plain all

his efforts to arrest the progress of it would be unavailing. In the

mean time he began to hear the cry of "fire." The people of the tavern

had been the first to see the light, and were running to the spot down

the lane. It suddenly occurred to Antonio that if he were found there

at the fire he should be obliged to explain how he came there, and by so

doing to expose Rodolphus as a thief and a burglar.[1] When Antonio

thought how broken-hearted Ellen would be to have her brother sent to

prison for such crimes, he could not endure the thought of being the

means of his detection. He immediately determined therefore to run away,

and leave the people to find out how the fire originated as they best

could.

[Footnote 1: The crime of breaking into a building in such a way is

called burglary, and it is punished very severely among all

civilized nations.]

All these thoughts passed through Antonio's mind in an instant, and he

sprang out from under the corn-barn as soon as he heard the men coming,

and ran off toward the fields. The men saw him, and they concluded

immediately that he was an incendiary who had set the building on fire,

and accordingly the first two that came to the spot instead of stopping

to put out the fire, determined to pursue the fugitive. Antonio ran to a

place where there was a gap in a wall, and, leaping over, he crouched

down, and ran along on the outer side of the wall. The men followed him.

Antonio made for a haystack which was near, and after going round to the

further side of the haystack, he ran on toward a wood, keeping the

haystack between himself and the men, in hopes that he should thus be

concealed from their view. As soon as he got into the wood he ran into a

little thicket, and creeping into the darkest place that he could find,

he lay down there to await the result.

The men came up to the place out of breath with running. They looked

about in the wood for some time, and Antonio began to think that they

would not find him. But he was mistaken. One of the men at length found

him, and pulled him out roughly by the arms.

They took hold of him, one on one side and the other on the other, and

led him back toward the fire. The building was by this time all in

flames, and though many men had assembled they made no effort to

extinguish the fire. It was obvious, in fact, that all such efforts

would have been unavailing. Then, besides, as the building stood by

itself, there was no danger to any other property, in letting it burn.

The men gathered round Antonio, wondering who he could be, but he would

not answer any questions. He was there an utter stranger to them all--a

prisoner, seized almost in the very act of setting the building on fire,

and yet he stood before them with such an open, fearless, honest look,

that no one knew what to think or to say in respect to him.

In the mean time the flames rolled fearfully into the air, sending up

columns of sparks, and illuminating all the objects around in the most

brilliant manner. Groups of boys stood here and there, their faces

brightened with the reflection of the fire, and their arms held up

before their eyes to shield them from the dazzling light. A little

further back were companies of women and children, beaming out

beautifully from the surrounding darkness, and a gilded vane on the

village spire appeared relieved against the sky, as if it were a great

blazing meteor at rest among the stars. At length the fire went down.

The people gradually dispersed. The men who had charge of Antonio took

him to the tavern, locked him up in a room there, and stationed one of

their number to keep guard at the door till morning.

[Illustration: THE CONFLAGRATION.]

II. ANTONIO A PRISONER.

During the night, Antonio had time to reflect upon the situation in

which he was placed, and to consider what it was best for him to do. He

decided that the first thing to be done, was to write to Mrs. Henry, and

inform her what had happened. He determined also not to reveal any thing

against Rodolphus, unless he should find that he was required by law to

do so--at least until he could have time to consider whether something

could not yet be done to save him from the utter ruin which would follow

from his being convicted of burglary and sent to the state prison.

In the morning, an officer came with a regular warrant for arresting

Antonio, on the charge of setting the corn-barn on fire. A warrant is a

paper signed by a justice or judge, authorizing the officer to seize a

prisoner, and to bring him before a magistrate, for what is called an

examination. If, on the examination, the magistrate sees that the

prisoner is clearly innocent, he releases him, and that is the end of

the matter. If, however, he finds that there is reason to suspect that

he may be guilty, he orders the officer to keep him in the jail till the

time comes for the court to meet and try his case.

Sometimes, when the offense is not very serious, they release the

prisoner _on bail_, as it is called, during the time that intervenes

between his examination and his trial. That is, they give him up to his

friends, on condition that his friends agree that he shall certainly

appear at the time of trial--covenanting that if he does not appear they

will pay a large sum of money. The money that is to be forfeited, if he

fails to appear, varies in different cases, and is fixed by the judge in

each particular case. This money is called the _bail_. If the prisoner

has a bad character, and his friends generally believe that he is

guilty, he can not get bail, for his friends are afraid that if they

give bail for him, and so let him have his liberty, he will run away

before the time comes for his trial, and then they will lose the money.

When, for this or any other reason, a prisoner can not get bail, he has

to go to prison, and stay there till his trial comes on. On the other

hand, if the prisoner has a good character, and if his friends have

confidence in him, they give bail, and thus he is left at liberty until

his trial comes on.

At the examination of a prisoner, which takes place usually very soon

after he is first arrested, he is allowed to say any thing that he

pleases to say, in explanation of the suspicious circumstances under

which he was taken. He is, however, not required to say any thing unless

he chooses. The reason of this is, that no one is required to furnish

any proof against himself, when he is charged with crime. If he can say

any thing which will operate in his favor, he is allowed to do it, and

what he says is written down, and is produced on his trial, to be used

for or against him according to the circumstances of the case.

When the officer came in, in the morning, to arrest Antonio, he told him

he was to go at eleven o'clock the next morning before the magistrate to

be examined. Antonio asked the officer whether he could be allowed, in

the mean time, to write a letter to his friends in Franconia.

"Yes," said the officer, "only I must see what you write."

So they brought Antonio a sheet of paper, and a pen and ink. He sat down

to a table and wrote as follows:

"HIBURGH, July 10.

"To MRS. HENRY;

"There was a fire here last night which burnt up an old corn-barn,

and I have been taken up for it, by the officers. They think that I

set the corn-barn on fire, but I did not do it. I suppose, though,

that I shall have to be tried, and I expect that I must go to

prison until the trial comes on, unless Mr. Keep could come down

here and make some arrangement for me. You may depend that I did

not set the corn-barn on fire.

"Yours with much respect,

"A. BIANCHINETTE."

The officer read this letter when it was finished, and then asked

Antonio whether it should be put into the post-office. Antonio inquired

how much it would cost to send a boy with it on purpose. The officer

told him what he thought it would cost, and then Antonio took out the

money that he had in his pocket to see if he had enough. He found that

he had more than enough, and so the officer sent a special messenger

with the letter.

"And now," said the officer, "you must go with me to my house. I am

going to keep you there until the examination to-morrow."

So Antonio took his cap and went down stairs with the officer. He found

quite a number of men and boys at the door, waiting to see him come.

These people followed him along through the street, as he walked toward

the officer's house, some running before, to look him in the face, and

some running behind, and calling him incendiary and other hard names.

Antonio took no notice of them, but walked quietly along, talking with

the officer.

When he got opposite to the lane, he looked down toward the place where

the corn-barn had stood. He found that it had been burnt to the ground.

The ruins were still smoking, and several men and boys were standing

around the place--some looking idly on, and some poking up the

smouldering fires.

There was something in Antonio's frank and honest air, and in the

intelligence and good sense which he manifested in his conversation,

which interested the officer in his favor. He told his wife when he got

home that Antonio was the most honest looking rogue that he ever had the

custody of. It shows, however, he added, how little we can trust to

appearances. I once had a man in my keeping, who looked as innocent and

simple-minded as Dorinda there, but he turned out to be one of the most

cunning counterfeiters in the state.

Dorinda was the officer's little girl.

There was a room in the officer's house, which was made very strong, and

used for the temporary keeping of prisoners. They put Antonio into this

room and locked him in.

The officer, however, told him when he went away, that he would bring

him some breakfast pretty soon; and this he did in about half an hour.

Antonio ate his breakfast with an excellent appetite.

After breakfast he moved his chair up to a small window, which had been

made in one side of the room. The window had a sash on the inside, and

great iron bars without. Antonio opened the sash and looked out through

the iron bars. He saw a pleasant green yard, and a little girl playing

there upon the grass.

"What is your name?" said Antonio.

The little girl started at hearing this voice, ran back a little way,

and then stood looking at Antonio with her hands behind her.

"Bring me that piece of paper," said Antonio, "that lies there on the

grass, and I will make you a picture."

The girl stood still a moment as if much astonished, and then advancing

timidly, she picked up the paper and brought it to Antonio's window,

which was very near the ground, and held it up. Antonio reached his arm

out between the bars of the grating and took the paper in.

[Illustration: THE BARRED WINDOW.]

Although the window was not high, it seemed to be with some difficulty

that Antonio could reach the paper as Dorinda held it up. But this was

partly because Dorinda was afraid, and did not dare to come too near.

Antonio took a pencil out of his pocket, and putting the paper down upon

the window sill, he began to draw. Dorinda stood still upon the ground

outside, watching him. Antonio made a picture of a very grave and

matronly-looking cat, lying upon a stone step and watching two kittens

that were playing upon the grass before her. There was a bare-headed boy

near, who seemed to be putting a mitten upon his hand. Underneath

Antonio wrote the words--

"This is the picture of a cat,

Looking at some kittens;

Also a boy without a hat,

Putting on his mittens."

[Illustration: ANTONIO'S PICTURE.]

When the work was finished, Antonio threw the paper out the window, and

Dorinda who had been all the time looking on with a very serious

expression of countenance, took it up, and began to look at the drawing.

She could not read, so she only looked at the picture. After examining

it for some minutes, without, however, at all relaxing the extreme

gravity of her countenance, she ran off to show the paper to her mother.

Presently she came back again. By this time Antonio had made another

drawing. It was the representation of his own window, as it would appear

on the outside, with iron bars forming a grating, and himself looking

through between them. Underneath he wrote,

"Pity the poor prisoner, and bring him some books to read."

Dorinda took this picture too, when Antonio threw it out to her, and ran

in with it to her mother. Presently she came out with two books in her

hand. She came under the window and held them up timidly to Antonio, and

Antonio took them in.

By the help of these books and some other indulgences that the officer

allowed him, Antonio got through the day very comfortably and well.

The next morning, at eleven o'clock, the officer came to take his

prisoner to the justice, for examination. The officer led Antonio along

the street till he came to a lawyer's office. There were several men and

boys about the door. These persons eyed Antonio very closely when he

went in. On entering the office, Antonio was brought up in front of a

table which stood in the middle of the room. A young man was sitting at

the table with paper, and pen, and ink before him. He was the clerk. The

justice himself sat in an arm-chair near the window.

The men and boys from the outside came in immediately after Antonio, and

stood in the office, near the door, to hear the examination.

When all was ready, the justice commenced by saying to Antonio,

"What is your name?" young man.

"Antonio Bianchinette," said Antonio.

"Where do you live?" asked the justice.

"In Franconia," said Antonio.

"You are aware, I suppose," said the justice, "that you are charged

with having set fire to the building which was burned night before last,

and you are brought here for a preliminary examination. You can do just

as you please about giving any explanation of the circumstances of the

case, or answering any questions that I put to you. If you make any

statements or answer any questions, what you say will be put down, and

will be used either for, or against you, as the case may be, on your

trial."

Antonio said in reply, that he did not wish to make any statements, or

to answer any questions in relation to the fire.

"There is one thing, however," he added, "that I wish to say, and that

is, that there is something buried in the ground, under the place where

the building stood, that ought to be dug up, and if you will take me to

the place I will show you where to dig."

"What is it that is buried there?" said the justice.

"I would rather not answer that question," said Antonio.

The justice paused a moment to consider what to do. He had heard of the

robbery that had been committed on Saturday night, for Mr. Kerber, on

going into his office on Monday morning, had found the back door

unhasped, and his desk broken open, and the news of the robbery had

spread all over the village. People wondered whether there could be any

connection between the robbery and the fire, though nothing had been

said to Antonio about it.

After thinking a moment about Antonio's proposal, the justice concluded

to accede to it. The officer accordingly sent a man to get a spade and

directed him to come with it to the ruins of the corn-barn. Another man

went to tell Mr. Kerber that the boy who had been taken up for setting

the barn on fire, had said that there was something buried there, and

that perhaps it might prove to be his money-box. So Mr. Kerber

determined to go and see.

In a short time quite a large party were assembled around the ruins.

Antonio directed them where to dig. The men pulled away the blackened

timbers and brands which were lying over the spot, and began to dig into

the ground. In a few minutes they struck something hard with the spade,

and setting the spade down beneath it so as to pry it out, they found

that it was indeed Mr. Kerber's box.

The men gathered eagerly around to examine the box. Mr. Kerber shook it

and found that the money was safe inside. He took out his key, but he

could not get it into the key-hole, for the key-hole had got filled with

earth. He turned the box down upon its side and knocked it upon

something hard, and so got the earth out, and then he found that the key

would go in. He unlocked the box, and to his great joy found that all

was safe.

Antonio would not make any explanation, except that he did not suppose

that any thing else was buried there, and that consequently it would do

no good to dig any more. He said, moreover, that he expected some of

his friends would come from Franconia before night to see about his

case, and so the justice gave him up to the care of the officer again,

until his friends should come. The officer accordingly took his prisoner

away again, and Mr. Kerber carried his money-box home.

Mr. Keep arrived that day about noon. He immediately had an interview

with Antonio. After some little general conversation, Antonio said that

he would rather not make any explanations of the circumstances under

which he was arrested at present, even to Mr. Keep, unless Mr. Keep

requested it.

"I tell you truly, sir," said he, "that I am entirely innocent: but I

can not state what I know, without breaking a poor girl's heart who once

saved my life, and I can not do it."

Mr. Keep was silent a few minutes when Antonio said this. He recollected

Rodolphus and Ellen his sister, and recalled to mind the story of Ellen

and the snow-shoes, which he had heard at the time. He immediately

understood the whole case.

"I am not surprised that you feel as you do," said he, "but when a crime

is committed and we are called upon to testify as a witness, we are

bound to state what we know, without regard to our private feelings."

"Yes, sir," said Antonio, "but I am not called upon as a witness. I am

charged with committing the crime myself, and the justice said that I

was at liberty to answer or not, as I chose."

Mr. Keep was silent for a moment. He seemed to be reflecting upon what

Rodolphus had said.

"By taking the course that you propose," he added, at length, "you run a

great risk of being condemned yourself for the crime."

"Why, no, sir," said Antonio; "I can't be condemned unless they _prove_

that I did it; and as I really did not do it, I don't think that they

can prove that I did."

Mr. Keep smiled.

"Well suppose that you do as you propose," said Mr. Keep, "and allow

yourself to take the place of the one who is really guilty, what good

will it do him? You will only leave him to commit more crimes."

"I hope not, sir," said Antonio "I should try to get him away from here

to some new place. I think that he has been led away. He has got into

bad company."

"Well," said Mr. Keep, after a short pause, "the plan may succeed, but

you run a great risk in taking such a course. I think that there is

great danger that you would be condemned and sent to the state prison."

"Well," said Beechnut, "I should not mind that very much. There is no

great harm in going to prison, if you are only innocent. I have been

shut up here one day already, and I had a good time."

Mr. Keep said finally that the subject required time for consideration,

and that in the mean time he would make arrangements for giving bail for

Antonio. This he did, and then he and Antonio went together back to

Franconia.

III. THE TRIAL.

The time arrived for Antonio's trial very soon. At the appointed day he

and Mr. Keep went together to the town where the court was to be held.

Mr. Keep delivered Antonio to the officer again, and the officer led him

into a little room adjoining the court room and left him there under the

custody of a subordinate officer. At length his case was called, and the

officer came forward and conducted him into the court room.

[Illustration: THE COURT ROOM.]

When Antonio entered the room he looked around to see how it was

arranged. At one end there was a platform, with a curtained window

behind it, and a long desk in front. Behind the desk there sat an

elderly gentleman whom Antonio supposed was the judge. He sat in a large

arm-chair. There was another arm-chair upon the platform, but there was

nobody sitting in it. Antonio thought that probably it was for another

judge, and that he would come in by-and-by, but he did not come.

In front of the judge's desk and a little lower down, there was another

desk, with a great many books and bundles of papers upon it. There was a

man seated at this desk with his back to the judge's desk. This man was

writing. He was the clerk of the court.

In front of the clerk's desk, and toward the middle of the room was a

pretty large table with lawyers sitting around it. The lawyers had

green bags with papers in them.

On each side of the room there were two long seats facing toward the

middle of the room. These seats were for the juries. Each seat was long

enough for six men, making twelve in all on each side. Between the

juries' seats and the judge's platform, there was, on each side, a stand

for the witnesses. The witnesses' stands were placed in this position,

so that all could hear the testimony which the witnesses should give.

On the back side of the room there were several seats for spectators. In

front of the spectator's seats there were two chairs. The officer led

Antonio to one of these chairs and gave him a seat there. The officer

himself took his seat in the other chair. He had a long slender pole in

his hand, which was his badge of office.

The first thing to be done was for the clerk to read the accusation. The

accusation to be made against a prisoner is always written out in full,

and is called an indictment. The indictment against Antonio was handed

to the clerk and he read it. It charged Antonio with breaking into and

robbing Mr. Kerber's office, and then setting fire to the barn.

After the indictment had been read, the judge, looking to Antonio, asked

him whether he was guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty," said Antonio.

The arrangements were then made for the trial. The jury were appointed,

and they took their places in the jury seats which were on the right

hand side of the court room. Some jury-men belonging to another jury

were sitting in the seats on the left hand, but they had now nothing to

do but to listen, like the other spectators.

There is a sort of public lawyer in every county, appointed for the

purpose, whose business it is to attend to the trial of any person

accused of crime in his county. He is called the county attorney. It is

his duty to collect the evidence against the prisoner, and to see that

it is properly presented to the court and jury, and to prove that the

prisoner is guilty, if he can. The prisoner, on the other hand has

another lawyer, whose duty it is to collect all the evidence in his

favor, and to try to prove him innocent. The trial is always commenced

by adducing first the evidences of the prisoner's guilt.

Accordingly, when the jury were ready, the judge called upon the county

attorney to proceed.

He rose, and spoke as follows:

"May it please your Honor."

Here the county attorney bowed to the judge.

"And you, gentlemen of the jury."

Here he bowed to the jury.

"I am very sorry to have to appear against so young, and, I may add, so

innocent-looking a person as the prisoner before you, on a charge of so

serious a nature as burglary. But I have no choice. However much we may

regret that a person so young should become so depraved as to commit

such crimes, our duty to the community requires that we should proceed

firmly and decidedly to the exposure and punishment of them. I shall

proceed to lay before you the evidence that the prisoner at the bar is

guilty of the crime charged against him. It will be the duty of his

counsel, on the other hand, to prove his innocence, if he can. I shall

be very glad, and I have no doubt that you will be, to find that he can

succeed in doing this. I fear, however, that it will be out of his

power.

"I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, by the witnesses that I

shall bring forward, that the prisoner left his home in a very

mysterious manner on the Saturday when the robbery was committed. That

he came to Hiburgh, and arrived here about nine o'clock. That he then

went to his room, as if to go to bed, and immediately afterward went out

in a secret manner. About half-past ten the corn-barn was found to be on

fire; and on the people repairing to the spot, found the prisoner there

alone. He fled, and was pursued. He was taken, and at length finding

that he was detected, and terrified, perhaps, at the consequences of

what he had done, he gave information of the place where the money which

had been taken was concealed.

"These circumstances all point to the prisoner as the guilty party, or

at least as one of the guilty parties concerned in the robbery. As to

the fire, we lay no particular stress upon that, for it may have been

accidental. We think it probable that it was so. The charge which we

make against the prisoner is the robbery, and we are willing to consider

the fire as an accident, providentially occurring as a means of bringing

the iniquity to light."

* * * * *

The county attorney then began to call in his witnesses. The first

witness was James.

James said that Antonio was well known to him; that he came originally

from Canada; that he had lived for some time at Mrs. Henry's; and that

on the Saturday in question he said that he was going to Hiburgh; but

would not give him, James, any explanation of the business that called

him there.

The next witness was Antony, the man who had brought Antonio in his

wagon the last part of his journey.

Antony testified that he overtook the prisoner on the road, and that he

brought him forward in his wagon. The prisoner, he said, seemed very

anxious to get into town before nine o'clock; but he was very careful

not to say any thing about the business which called him there. There

was something very mysterious about him, Antony said, and he thought so

at the time.

The next witness was the tavern keeper.

The tavern-keeper testified that Antonio came to his house a little past

nine; that he seemed in a hurry to go to his room, that the

tavern-keeper showed him the room and left him there; but that on going

up a few minutes afterward to ask him what time he would have breakfast,

he found that he was not there. That about an hour afterward he saw a

light, and running out he found that the corn-barn was on fire. He cried

"fire," and with another man ran to the corn-barn, and there saw some

one running away. He and the other man pursued the fugitive, and finally

caught him, and found that it was the prisoner--the same young man that

had come to his house as a traveler an hour before.

The next witness was Mr. Kerber.

Mr. Kerber testified that he left his office safe, with his money in the

money-box, in the desk, on Saturday night, about half-past eight. That

on the Monday morning following he found that the office had been broken

into, the desk opened, and the money-box carried away. That he was

present at the prisoner's examination before the justice, and that the

prisoner then and there said that there was something buried under where

the corn-barn had stood, and that the company all proceeded to the

place, and dug into the ground where the prisoner directed them to dig,

and that there they found the money-box.

The minutes of Antonio's examination before the justice were also read,

in which he declined to give any explanation of the case.

The county attorney then said that his evidence was closed.

The judge then called upon Mr. Keep to bring forward whatever evidence

he had to offer in the prisoner's favor. Mr. Keep had only two

witnesses, and they could only testify to Antonio's general good

character. They were Franconia men, who said that they had known Antonio

a long time, that he had always borne an irreproachable character, and

that they did not believe him capable of committing such a crime.

After the evidence was thus all in, Mr. Keep made a speech in defense of

his client. He admitted, he said, that the case was a very extraordinary

one. There was a mystery about it which was not explained. Still he said

it was not really _proved_, either that Antonio stole the money or that

he set fire to the barn. Many suppositions might be made to account for

the facts, without implicating Antonio as really guilty.

The county attorney then made his speech. It was, of course, against

Antonio. He said that the appearances were all against the prisoner, and

that if he were really innocent, it would be easy for him to explain the

case. His refusal to do this, and his showing where the money was hid,

ought to be considered as completing the proofs of guilt, furnished by

the other circumstances of the affair.

The judge then told the jury that it was their duty to decide whether it

had been _proved_ that Antonio was guilty.

"You have heard all the evidence," said he, "and you must decide. If you

are perfectly satisfied that the prisoner is guilty, then you must

condemn him. If you are satisfied that he is innocent, then of course

you must acquit him. And if you are uncertain whether he is innocent or

guilty, then you must acquit him too; for no one is to be condemned,

unless it is proved positively that he is guilty."

The jury were then conducted out by an officer of the court, to a small

room adjoining, where they were to deliberate on the case. In about

fifteen minutes they returned. The judge then called upon the prisoner

to rise. Antonio rose and looked toward the judge. The jury were

standing in their places, looking toward the judge, too.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "are you agreed upon the

verdict?"

The foreman of the jury said,

"We are agreed."

"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge again, "what say you? is the

prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," said the foreman.

There was general smile of satisfaction about the room at hearing this

decision. The clerk wrote down the verdict in the record. The judge

directed the prisoner to be discharged, and then called for the case

which came next on the docket.[2]

[Footnote 2: The docket is the list of cases.]

Antonio went out with Mr. Keep and got into a wagon which Mr. Keep had

provided all ready for him at the door. They set out, counsel and

client, on their return to Franconia.

Mr. Keep was of course very much relieved at the result of the trial;

for though he was himself perfectly satisfied of his client's innocence,

still the circumstances were very strong against him, and there was, in

fact, nothing but his good character in his favor. He had been very much

afraid, therefore, that Antonio would be condemned, for the jury are

bound to decide according to the evidence that is placed before them.

"You have got off very well, so far," said Mr. Keep. "Having been

accused as an accomplice in the crime, it was your privilege to be

silent. Should you, however, hereafter be called upon as a witness, you

will have to give your testimony."

"Why must I?" asked Antonio.

"Your duty to your country requires it," said Mr. Keep.

"Then," said Antonio, "I suppose I must, and I will."

IV. ANOTHER TRIAL.

Rodolphus and his two confederates in crime were in a state of great

anxiety and apprehension, during the period which intervened between the

committing of the crime and the trial of Antonio. Antonio did not

attempt to hold any communication with Rodolphus during this interval,

for fear that by so doing he might awaken in people's minds some

suspicion of the truth. He had, however, a secret plan of doing

something to save Rodolphus from ruin, so soon as the excitement, which

had been occasioned by the robbery and the fire, should have passed by.

All his plans however were defeated by an unexpected train of

occurrences, which took place a day or two after his acquittal, and

which changed suddenly the whole aspect of the affair.

One night very soon after Antonio's trial, Rodolphus, after he had gone

to bed and was just falling asleep, was awakened by a loud knocking at

his door.

"Rodolphus!" said a harsh voice, outside, "Rodolphus! get up and let us

in."

[Illustration: THE ARREST]

Rodolphus was dreadfully terrified. He was always terrified by any

unexpected sight or sound, as the guilty usually are. He got up and

opened the door. Mr. Kerber and another man came in.

"You are my prisoner," said the stranger. "You must put on your clothes

and come with me."

Rodolphus was in great distress and trepidation. He however put on his

clothes. He did not dare to ask what he was arrested for. He knew too

well. The officer informed him that he was arrested on a charge of being

concerned in the robbery of Mr. Kerber, but that he need not say any

thing about it unless he chose to do so. Rodolphus was so terrified and

distressed that he did not know what to say or do. So the officer led

him away, pale and trembling, to his house, and locked him up in the

same room where Antonio had been confined. There was a little bed in one

corner of the room. Rodolphus went and sat down upon it, and sobbed and

wept in anguish and despair.

In a day or two his friends in Franconia heard of his arrest, and Mr.

Keep went down to see him. Mr. Keep came as Rodolphus's counsel and

friend--in order to confer with him and to defend him on his trial; but

Rodolphus considered him as banded with all the rest of the world

against him, and either could not, or would not answer any of the

friendly questions which Mr. Keep proposed to him; but sat crying all

the time while Mr. Keep was there, and making himself very miserable.

Mr. Keep saw at once that he was guilty, and despaired of being able to

do any thing to save him.

There was nobody to give bail for Rodolphus, and so it was necessary to

keep him in close confinement until the time for his trial arrived. In

consideration, however, of his tender years, it was decided not to take

him to the jail, but to keep him at the house of the officer, in the

strong room where he was put when he was first arrested.

The room itself was a very comfortable one, but Rodolphus spent his time

in it very unhappily. The people treated him very kindly, but nothing

gave him any peace or comfort. They brought him books, but he could not

read well enough to take any pleasure in them. Sometimes he would go to

the window and look out upon the green yard, but it only made him more

miserable to see the grass and the flowers, and the trees waving in the

wind, and the birds flying about at liberty. Sometimes he saw Dorinda

there playing with her kitten, and singing little songs; but this sight

made him more unhappy than all the rest.

Rodolphus's mother came down to to see him once, with Antonio. Antonio

drove down with her in a wagon. The visit, however, did not give either

Rodolphus or his mother any pleasure. They spoke scarcely a word to each

other, while she staid. When she got into the wagon to go home, Antonio,

seeing how much she was distressed, tried to comfort her by saying, that

she must not be so troubled; he hoped, he said, that Rodolphus would yet

turn out to be a good boy. There had been a great many cases, where boys

had been led away when young, by bad company, to do what was very wrong,

who were afterward sorry for it, and changed their courses and behaved

well. This conversation seemed to make Mrs. Linn feel somewhat more

composed, but she was still very unhappy.

At length the time for the trial drew near. Rodolphus felt great

solicitude and anxiety as the time approached. He did not know what

evidence there was against him, for no one had been allowed to talk with

him on the subject of the crime. Even Mr. Keep, his lawyer, did not know

what the evidence was, for it is always customary in such cases, for

each party to keep the evidence which they have to offer, as much as

possible concealed. Antonio had, however, received a summons to appear

as a witness, and Mr. Keep told him that if they insisted on examining

him, he would be bound to answer all the questions which they put to

him, honestly and truly, whatever his private feelings might be.

When the day arrived, Rodolphus was taken by the officer to the court

room, and placed in the same chair where Antonio had sat. Antonio had

looked around upon the proceedings with so frank and honest an

expression of countenance, and with such an unconcerned air, that every

one had been impressed with a belief of his innocence. Rodolphus, on the

other hand, sat still, pale, and trembling, and he manifested in his

whole air and demeanor every indication of conscious guilt.

The preliminary proceedings were all much the same as they had been in

the case of Antonio. When these had been gone through, the judge called

upon the county attorney to proceed. After a short opening speech he

said, that his first witness was Mr. Kerber. Mr. Kerber was called, and

took his place upon the stand.

Mr. Kerber first gave an account of the robbery, describing the

situation of his office and of the two doors leading to it, and of the

desk in the corner, and narrating all the circumstances relating to the

appearance of his office on the Monday morning, and the discovery of the

strong box under the ruins of the corn-barn. He then proceeded as

follows:

"For a time I considered it certain that Antonio, the one who was first

suspected, was the one really guilty, and made no effort or inquiry in

any other direction until he was tried. I was convinced then that he was

innocent, and immediately began to consider what I should do to find out

the robber. I examined the hole again which had been bored into the

door, and the marks of the tools by which the desk had been broken open.

I thought that I might, perhaps, possibly find the tools that fitted

these places somewhere about town, and that if I should, I might,

possibly, in that way, get some clew to the robbers. So I borrowed the

bits and the chisels of several of my neighbors, but I could not find

any that would fit.

"At last I happened to think of some old tools that I had in a back

room, and on comparing them I found two that fitted exactly. There was a

bit which just fitted the hole, and there were some fibres of the wood

which had been caught upon the edge of the bit, where it was dull, that

looked fresh and compared well with the color of the wood of the door.

There was a large chisel, too, that fitted exactly to the impressions

made upon the wood of the desk, in prying it open.

"I could see, too, that some of these tools had recently been moved, by

the dust having been disturbed around them. There were marks and tracks,

too, in the dust, upon a bench, where some boy had evidently climbed up

to get the tools. I tried one of Rodolphus's shoes to these tracks, and

found that it fitted exactly."

While Mr. Kerber was making these statements, Rodolphus hung his head,

and looked utterly confounded.

"Just about the time," continued Mr. Kerber, "that I made these

discoveries, a person came to me and informed me--"

"Stop," interrupted Mr. Keep. "You are not to state what any other

person informed you. You are only to state what you know personally,

yourself."

Mr. Kerber was silent.

The county attorney, who knew well that this was the rule in all trials,

said that he had nothing more to ask that witness then, but that he

would withdraw him for a time. He then called Antonio. Antonio took his

place upon the stand.

After the oath was administered as usual, the county attorney began to

question Antonio as follows:

"Were you in Hiburgh on the night of this robbery?"

"I was," said Antonio.

"At what time did you arrive there?" asked the attorney.

"I believe it was a little past nine," said Antonio.

"Were you at the corn-barn when it took fire?"

"I was," said Antonio.

"State now to the jury what it was that led you to go there."

Antonio recollected that what first attracted his attention and led him

to go out, was seeing Rodolphus and the other boys going by with their

lantern, and hearing their suppressed voices; and he perceived that if

he went any further in his testimony he should prove Rodolphus to be

guilty; so he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he turned to the

judge, and asked whether he could not be excused from giving any more

testimony.

"On what ground do you wish to be excused?" said the judge.

"Why, what I should say," said Antonio, "might go against the boy, and I

don't wish to say any thing against him."

"You can not be excused," said the judge, shaking his head. "It is very

often painful to give testimony against persons accused of crime, but it

is a duty which must be performed."

"But there is a special reason," said Antonio, "in this case."

"What is the reason?" said the judge.

Antonio hesitated. At length he said timidly,

"His sister saved my life."

Here there was a pause. The preferring such a request, to be excused

from testifying, and for such a reason, is a very uncommon occurrence in

a court. The judge, the jury, the lawyers, and all the spectators looked

at Antonio, who stood upon the witness's stand all the time, turning his

face toward the judge, awaiting his decision.

After a pause the judge said,

"Your unwillingness to do any thing to injure the brother of a girl who

saved your life, does you honor, and I would gladly excuse you if I

could, but it is not in my power. The ends of justice require that you

should give your testimony, whatever the consequences may be."

"What would be done," asked Antonio, "if I should refuse to do so?"

"Then you would be sent to prison yourself," said the judge, "for

contempt of court."

"And suppose I am willing to go to prison," said Antonio, "rather than

testify against Ellen's brother; can I do so?"

The judge looked a little perplexed. What answer he would have given to

this question we do not know, for he was prevented from answering it, by

the county attorney, who here rose and said,

"May it please your honor, I will withdraw this witness for the present.

I shall be glad to get along without his testimony, if possible, and

perhaps I can."

Antonio then left the stand, very much relieved. Rodolphus wondered who

would be called next. His heart sank within him, when he saw an officer

who had gone out a moment before, come in and lead _Gilpin_ to the

witness-stand.

It is customary in almost all countries, whenever a crime is committed,

and it is not possible to ascertain who committed it by any ordinary

proofs, to allow any one of the accomplices who is disposed to do so, to

come forward and inform against the rest, and then to exempt him from

punishment in consideration of his so doing. It seems very base for one

person to lead another into sin, or even to join him in it, and then to

assist in bringing his accomplice to punishment, in order to escape it

himself. But they who combine to commit crimes, must be expected to be

base. Gilpin was so. There seemed to be nothing noble or generous in his

nature. As soon as he found out that Rodolphus was suspected, he feared

that Rodolphus would confess, and then that he should himself be seized.

Accordingly, he went immediately to Mr. Kerber, and told him that he

knew all about the robbery, and that he would tell all about it, if they

would agree that he should not come to any harm.

This arrangement was finally made. They, however, seized Gilpin, and

shut him up, so as to secure him for a witness, and he had been in

prison ever since Rodolphus's arrest, though Rodolphus knew nothing

about it. Christopher had run away the moment he heard of Rodolphus's

arrest, and nothing had since been heard of him. Gilpin was now brought

forward to give his testimony.

There was a great contrast in his appearance, as he came upon the stand,

from that of Antonio. He looked guilty and ashamed, and he did not dare

to turn his eyes toward Rodolphus at all. He could not go forward

himself and tell a connected story, but he made all his statements in

answer to questions put to him by the county attorney. He, however, in

the end, told all. He explained how Rodolphus had first cut a hole in

the partition, and then he narrated the conversation which the boys had

held together behind the wall. He told about the tools, and the dark

lantern, and the breaking in; also about going to the corn-barn, burying

the box, and then of the accidental setting of the straw on fire, and of

Antonio's suddenly coming in among them. In a word, the whole affair was

brought completely to light. Mr. Keep questioned Gilpin afterward very

closely, to see if he would contradict himself, and so prove that the

story which he was telling, was not true; but he did not contradict

himself, and finally he went away.

There were no witnesses to be offered in favor of Rodolphus, and very

little to be said in his defense. When, at length, the trial was

concluded, the jury conferred together a little in their seats, and then

brought in a verdict of guilty.

The next day Rodolphus was sentenced to ten days' solitary confinement

in the jail, and after that, to one year of hard labor in the state

prison.

V. THE FLIGHT.

Two or three days after Rodolphus's trial, Ellen, who had done every

thing she could to cheer and comfort her mother in her sorrow, told her

one morning that she desired to go and see her uncle Randon that day.

"Is it about Rodolphus?" asked her mother.

"Yes, mother," said Ellen.

"Well, you may go," said her mother; "but I don't think that any thing

will do any good now."

After all her morning duties had been performed, about the house, Ellen

put on her bonnet, and taking Annie by the hand, in order that she might

lead her to school, she set out on the way to her uncle's. She left

Annie at school as she passed through the village, and she arrived at

her uncle's about ten o'clock.

Her uncle had been married again. His present wife was a very strong and

healthy woman, who was almost all the time busily engaged about the farm

work, but she was very fond of Ellen, and always glad to see her at the

farm. When Ellen arrived at the farm, on this occasion, she went in at

the porch door as usual. There was no one in the great room. She passed

through into the back entry. From the back entry she went into the back

room--the room where in old times she used to shut up her kitten.

This room was now used as a dairy. There was a long row of milk-pans in

it, upon a bench. Mrs. Randon was there. She seemed very glad to see

Ellen, and asked her to walk into the house.

Ellen said that she came to see her uncle. So her aunt went with her out

into the yard where her uncle was at work; he was mending a harrow.

"Well, Ellen," said her uncle, "I am very glad to see you. But I am

sorry to hear about poor Rodolphus."

"Yes," said Ellen, "but I have thought of one more plan. It's of no use

to keep him from going to the state prison, even if we could, unless we

can get a good place for him. Now what I wish is, that if we can get him

free, you would let him come and live here with you. Perhaps you could

make him a good boy."

Mr. Randon leaned upon the handle of his broad ax, and seemed to be at a

loss what to say. He looked toward his wife.

"Yes," said she, "let him come. I should like to have him come very

much. _We_ can make him a good boy."

"Well," said Mr. Randon.

"Well!" said Ellen. Her eyes brightened up as she said this, and she

turned to go away. Mr. and Mrs. Randon attempted to stop her, but she

said that she could not stay then, and so she went away.

"She can not _get_ him free," said Mr. Randon.

"I don't know," said his wife. "Perhaps she may. Such a girl as she can

do a great deal when she tries."

Ellen went then as fast as she could go, to Mrs Henry's. She found

Antonio in the garden.

"Antonio," said she, "my uncle Randon says that he will take Rodolphus

and let him live there with him, on the farm, if we can only get him out

of prison."

"But we can't get him out of prison," said Antonio. "It is too late

now, he has been condemned and sentenced."

"But the governor can pardon him," said Ellen.

"Can he?" said Antonio.

"Yes," said Ellen.

"Can he?" repeated Antonio. "Then I'll go and see if he _will_."

Two days after this Antonio was on his way to the town where the

governor lived. He met with various adventures on his way, and he felt

great solicitude and doubt about the result of the journey. At last he

arrived at the place.

He was directed to a large and handsome house, which stood in the centre

of the principal street of the village, enveloped in trees and

shrubbery. There was a beautiful yard, with a great gate leading to it,

on one side of the house.

Antonio looked up this yard and saw an elderly gentleman there, just

getting into a chaise. A person who seemed to be his hired man was

holding the horse. The gentlemen stopped, with his foot upon the step of

the chaise, when he saw Antonio coming, and looked toward him.

[Illustration: THE GOVERNOR.]

"Is this Governor Dummer?" said Antonio, as he came up.

"Yes," said the gentleman, "that is what they call me."

"I wanted to see you about some business," said Antonio, "but you are

going away."

The governor looked at Antonio a moment, and, being pleased with his

appearance, he said,

"Yes, I am going away, but not far. Get into the chaise with me, and we

can talk as we ride."

So the governor got into the chaise.

Antonio followed him; the hired man let go of the horse's head, and

Antonio and the governor rode together out of the yard.

Antonio was quite afraid at first, to find himself suddenly shut up so

closely with a governor. He, however, soon recovered his

self-possession, and began to give an account of Rodolphus' case. The

governor listened very attentively to all he had to say. Then he asked

Antonio a great many questions, some about Rodolphus' mother and sister,

and also about Antonio himself. Finally he asked what it was proposed to

do with Rodolphus, in case he should be pardoned and set at liberty.

Antonio said that he was to go to his uncle's, which was an excellent

place, and where he hoped that he would learn to be a good boy.

The governor seemed very much interested in the whole story. He,

however, said that he could not, at that time, come to any conclusion in

respect to the affair; he must make some further inquiries. He must see

the record of the trial, and the other documentary evidence connected

with the case. He would attend to it immediately, he said, and write to

Mr. Keep in respect to the result.

About a week after this, Mr. Keep sent for Antonio to come and see him.

Antonio went.

"Well, Antonio," said Mr. Keep, as Antonio entered his office,

"Rodolphus is pardoned. I I should like to have you ask Mrs. Henry if

she will let you go to-morrow, and bring him home. If she says that you

may go, call here on your way, and I will give you some money to pay the

expenses of the journey."

Early the next morning, Antonio called at Mr. Keep's office, on his way

after Rodolphus. Mr. Keep gave him some money. Antonio received it, for

he thought it would not be proper to decline it. He had, however, plenty

of his own. He had already put in his pocket six half dollars which he

had taken from his chest that morning. Mr. Keep gave him a bank bill. He

put this bill into his waistcoat pocket and pinned it in.

He then proceeded on his journey. In due time he arrived at the place

where Rodolphus was imprisoned. The pardon had already arrived, and the

jailer was ready to deliver up Rodolphus to his friends. He told Antonio

that he was very glad that he had come to take the boy away. He did not

like, he said, to lock up children.

Antonio took Rodolphus in his wagon, and they drove away. It was late in

the afternoon when they set out, but though Antonio did not expect to

get to Franconia that night, he was anxious to proceed as far as he

could. He intended to stop that night at a tavern in a large town, and

get home, if possible, the next day. They arrived at the tavern safely.

They took supper; and after supper, being tired, they went to bed.

Antonio had done all that he could to make Rodolphus feel at his ease

and happy, during the day, having said nothing at all to him about his

bad conduct. He had talked to him about his uncle, and about his going

there to live, and other pleasant subjects. Still Rodolphus seemed

silent and sober, and after supper he seemed glad to go to bed.

The two boys slept in two rooms which opened into each other. Antonio

proposed to have the door open, between these rooms, but Rodolphus

seemed to wish to have it shut. Antonio made no objection to this, but

at last, when he was ready to go to bed, he opened the door a little to

say good-night to Rodolphus. Rodolphus, he saw, when he opened the door,

was sitting at a little table, writing upon a piece of paper, with a

pencil. Antonio bade him good-night and shut the door again.

"I hope he is writing to his mother," said Antonio to himself, "to

confess his faults and promise to be a good boy."

The next morning Antonio rose pretty early, but he moved softly about

the room, so as not to disturb Rodolphus, who he supposed was asleep, as

his room was still. Antonio went down and ordered breakfast, and

attended to his horses, and by-and-by he came up again to see if

Rodolphus had got up. He listened at the door, and all was still. He

then opened the door gently and looked in. There was nobody there, and

to Antonio's great surprise, the bed was smooth and full, as if had not

been disturbed.

Antonio went in. He saw a paper lying on the table with his own name on

the outside of it. He took this paper up, and found that it was in

Rodolphus's handwriting. It was half in written, and half in printed

characters, and very badly spelled. The substance of it was this.

"ANTONIO,

"I am sorry to go off and leave you, but I must. I should be glad

to go and live at my uncle's, but I can't. Don't try to find out

where I have gone. Give my love to my mother and to Ellen. I had

not any money, and so I had to take your half dollars out of your

pocket. If I ever can, I shall pay you.

"RODOLPHUS.

"P.S. It's no use in me trying to be a good boy."

Antonio made diligent inquiry for Rodolphus, in the town where he

disappeared, and in all the surrounding region, but no trace of the

fugitive could be found. He finally gave up the search and went

mournfully home.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.

THE CONSULAR THRONE.

France had tried republicanism, and the experiment had failed. There was

neither intelligence nor virtue among the people, sufficient to enable

them to govern themselves. During long ages of oppression they had sunk

into an abyss, from whence they could not rise, in a day, to the dignity

of freemen. Not one in thirty of the population of France could either

read or write. Religion and all its restraints, were scouted as

fanaticism. Few had any idea of the sacredness of a vote, of the duty of

the minority good-naturedly to yield to the majority. It is this

sentiment which is the political salvation of the United States. Not

unfrequently, when hundreds of thousands of ballots have been cast, has

a governor of a State been chosen by the majority of a single vote. And

the minority, in such circumstances, have yielded just as cordially as

they would have done to a majority of tens of thousands. After our most

exciting presidential elections, the announcement of the result is the

harbinger of immediate peace and good-natured acquiescence all over the

land. The defeated voter politely congratulates his opponent upon his

success. The French seemed to have attained no conception of the

sanctity of the decisions of the ballot-box. Government was but a series

of revolutions. Physical power alone was recognized. The strongest

grasped the helm, and, with the guillotine, confiscation, and exile,

endeavored hopelessly to cripple their adversaries. Ten years of such

anarchy had wearied the nation. It was in vain to protract the

experiment. France longed for repose. Napoleon was the only one capable

of giving her repose. The nation called upon him, in the loudest tones

which could be uttered, to assume the reins of government, and to

restore the dominion of security and order. We can hardly call that man

an usurper who does but assume the post which the nation with unanimity

entreats him to take. We may say that he was ambitious, that he loved

power, that glory was his idol. But if his ambition led him to exalt his

country; if the power he loved was the power of elevating the multitude

to intelligence, to self-respect, and to comfort; if the glory he sought

was the glory of being the most illustrious benefactor earth has ever

known, let us not catalogue his name with the sensualists and the

despots, who have reared thrones of self-aggrandizement and

self-indulgence upon the degradation of the people. We must compare

Napoleon with the leaders of armies, the founders of dynasties, and with

those who, in the midst of popular commotions, have ascended thrones.

When we institute such a comparison, Napoleon stands without a rival,

always excepting, in moral worth, our own Washington.

The next morning after the overthrow of the Directory, the three

consuls, Napoleon, Sieyes, and Ducos, met in the palace of the

Luxembourg. Sieyes was a veteran diplomatist, whose gray hairs entitled

him, as he supposed, to the moral supremacy over his colleagues. He

thought that Napoleon would be satisfied with the command of the armies,

while he would be left to manage the affairs of state. There was one

arm-chair in the room. Napoleon very coolly assumed it. Sieyes, much

annoyed, rather petulantly exclaimed, "Gentlemen, who shall take the

chair?" "Bonaparte surely," said Ducos; "he already has it. He is the

only man who can save us." "Very well, gentlemen," said Napoleon,

promptly, "let us proceed to business." Sieyes was staggered. But

resistance to a will so imperious, and an arm so strong, was useless.

[Illustration: THE CONSULS AND THE GOLD.]

Sieyes loved gold. Napoleon loved only glory. "Do you see," inquired

Sieyes, pointing to a sort of cabinet in the room, "that pretty piece of

furniture?" Napoleon, whose poetic sensibilities were easily aroused,

looked at it with interest, fancying it to be some relic of the

disenthroned monarchs of France. Sieyes continued: "I will reveal to you

a little secret. We Directors, reflecting that we might go out of office

in poverty, which would be a very unbecoming thing, laid aside, from the

treasury, a sum to meet that exigence. There are nearly two hundred

thousand dollars in that chest. As there are no more Directors, the

money belongs to us." Napoleon now began to understand matters. It was

not difficult for one who had proudly rejected millions, to look with

contempt upon thousands. "Gentlemen," said he, very coolly, "should this

transaction come to my knowledge, I shall insist that the whole sum be

refunded to the public treasury. But should I not hear of it, and I know

nothing of it as yet, you, being two old Directors, can divide the money

between you. But you must make haste. Tomorrow it may be too late." They

took the hint, and divided the spoil; Sieyes taking the lion's share.

Ducos complained to Napoleon of the extortion of his colleague. "Settle

the business between yourselves," said Napoleon, "and be quiet. Should

the matter come to my ears, you will inevitably lose the whole."

This transaction, of course, gave Napoleon a supremacy which neither of

his colleagues could ever again question. The law which decreed the

provisional consulship, conferred upon them the power, in connection

with the two legislative bodies, of twenty-five members each, of

preparing a new Constitution to be submitted to the people. The genius

of Napoleon, his energy, his boundless information, and his instinctive

insight into the complexities of all subjects were so conspicuous in

this first interview, that his colleagues were overwhelmed. That evening

Sieyes went to sup with some stern republicans, his intimate friends.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the republic is no more. It died to-day. I have

this day conversed with a man who is not only a great general, but who

is himself capable of every thing, and who knows every thing. He wants

no counselors, no assistance. Politics, laws, the art of governing, are

as familiar to him as the manner of commanding an army. He is young and

determined. The republic is finished." "But," one replied, "if he

becomes a tyrant, we must call to our aid the dagger of Brutus." "Alas!

my friends," Sieyes rejoined, "we should then fall into the hands of the

Bourbons, which would be still worse."

Napoleon now devoted himself, with Herculean energies, to the

re-organization of the government, and to the general administration of

the affairs of the empire. He worked day and night. He appeared

insensible to exhaustion or weariness. Every subject was apparently

alike familiar to his mind; banking, police regulations, diplomacy, the

army, the navy, every thing which could pertain to the welfare of France

was, grasped by his all-comprehensive intellect.

The Directory had tyrannically seized, as hostages, any relatives of the

emigrants upon whom they could lay their hands. Wives, mothers, sisters,

brothers, fathers, children, were imprisoned and held responsible, with

their lives, for the conduct of their emigrant relatives. Napoleon

immediately abolished this iniquitous edict, and released the prisoners.

Couriers, without delay, were dispatched all over France to throw open

the prison doors to these unfortunate captives.

Napoleon even went himself to the Temple, where many of these innocent

victims were imprisoned, that he might, with his own hand break their

fetters. On Napoleon's return from this visit to the prison he

exclaimed, "What fools these Directors were! To what a state have they

brought our public institutions. The prisoners are in a shocking

condition. I questioned them, as well as the jailers, for nothing is to

be learned from the superiors. When in the prison I could not help

thinking of the unfortunate Louis XVI. He was an excellent man, but too

amiable to deal with mankind. And Sir Sydney Smith, I made them show me

his apartments. If he had not escaped I should have taken Acre. There

are too many painful associations connected with that prison. I shall

have it pulled down one day or other. I ordered the jailer's books to be

brought, and finding the list of the hostages, immediately liberated

them. I told them that an unjust law had placed them under restraint,

and that it was my first duty to restore them to liberty."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON IN THE TEMPLE.]

The priests had been mercilessly persecuted. They could only escape

imprisonment by taking an oath which many considered hostile to their

religious vows. Large numbers of them were immured in dungeons. Others,

in dismay and poverty, had fled, and were wandering fugitives in other

lands. Napoleon redressed their wrongs, and spread over them the shield

of his powerful protection. The captives were liberated, and the exiles

invited to return. The principle was immediately established that the

rights of conscience were to be respected. By this one act, twenty

thousand grief-stricken exiles were restored to France, proclaiming

through city and village the clemency of the First Consul. In the rural

districts of France, where the sentiment of veneration for Christianity

still lingered, the priests were received with the warmest welcome. And

in the hut of the peasant the name of Napoleon was breathed with prayers

and tears of gratitude.

Some French emigrants, furnished with arms by England, were returning to

France, to join the royalists in La Vendee, in extending the ravages of

civil war. The ship was wrecked on the coast of Calais, and they were

all made prisoners. As they were taken with arms in their hands, to

fight against their country, rigorous laws doomed them, as traitors, to

the guillotine. Napoleon interposed to save them. Magnanimously he

asserted--"No matter what their intentions were. They were driven on our

soil by the tempest. They are shipwrecked men. As such they are entitled

to the laws of hospitality. Their persons must be held inviolable."

Unharmed they were all permitted to re-embark and leave France. Among

these emigrants were many men of illustrious name. These acts of

generosity on the part of Napoleon did much to disarm their hostility,

and many of them became subsequently firm supporters of his power.

The Revolutionary tribunals had closed the churches, and prohibited the

observance of the Sabbath. To efface, if possible, all traces of that

sacred day, they had appointed every tenth day, for cessation from labor

and festivity. A heavy fine was inflicted upon any one who should close

his shop on the Sabbath, or manifest any reverence for the discarded

institution. Napoleon, who had already resolved to reinstate

Christianity in paganized France, but who found it necessary to move

with the utmost caution, ordered that no man should be molested for his

religious principles or practices. This step excited hostility. Paris

was filled with unbelief. Generals, statesmen, philosophers, scouted the

idea of religion. They remonstrated. Napoleon was firm. The mass of the

common people were with him, and he triumphed over aristocratic

infidelity.