Eugene bent over the cradle. Resting its rosy cheek on its bent arm,

the child was sleeping there, its auburn hair still tangled about its

forehead. He could not help pressing his lips to that forehead, and

a tear--the only tear that he shed--fell from his hot eye-ball, and

sparkled like a pearl upon the baby's cheek.

Then Eugene returned to the bedchamber, and sat down beside the bed,

still holding the taper in his grasp. The light fell softly over the

unruffled coverlet.

"I remember the night when she first crossed yonder threshold, and

slept in this bed."

There were traces of womanish weakness upon his bronzed face, but he

banished them in a moment, and the expression of his eye and lip became

fixed and resolute.

He sat for five minutes with his elbow on his knee, and his forehead in

his hand.

Then rising, he opened his carpet-bag, and took from thence a black

robe, with wide sleeves, and a cowl. It took but a moment to assume

his robe, and draw the cowl over his dark locks. He caught a glance at

his face, thus framed in the velvet cowl, and started as he beheld the

contrast between its ashy hues and the dark folds which concealed it.

"'THE TEMPLE!'" he muttered, and pressed his hand against his

forehead,--"I believe I remember the pass word."

He took a pair of pistols, and a long slender dagger, sheathed in

silver, from the carpet-bag, and regarded them for a moment.

"No, no," he exclaimed, "these will not avail for a night like this."

Gathering his cloak about him, he extinguished the taper, and crossed

the threshold of his bed-chamber. His steps were heard on the stairs,

and soon the faint jar of the shut door was heard.

And as he left the house, the child in the cradle awoke from its

slumber and stretched forth its little head, and in its baby voice

called the name of the young MOTHER.

Our story now turns to Randolph and Esther.

CHAPTER VII.

THE WHITE SLAVE AND HIS SISTER.

As the night set in--the night of December 23d, 1844--two persons were

seated in the recess of a lofty window, which commanded a view of

Broadway. It was the window of a drawing-room, on the second floor of a

four storied edifice, built of brick, with doors and window-frames of

marble.--By the dim light which prevailed, it might be seen that the

drawing-room was spacious and elegantly furnished. Mirrors, pictures

and statues broke softly through the twilight.

Seated amid the silken curtains of the window, these persons sat in

silence--the man with his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his

breast, the woman with her hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes

fixed upon the face of her companion. The woman was very beautiful;

one of those who are called 'queenly' by persons who have never seen a

live queen, and who are ignorant of the philosophical truth, that one

beautiful woman is worth all the queens in the universe. The man was

dark-haired, and of a complexion singularly pale and colorless; there

was thought upon his forehead, and something of an unpleasant memory,

written in his knit brows and compressed lips.

The silence which had prevailed for half an hour, was broken by a

whisper from the lips of the woman--

"Of what are you thinking, Randolph?"

"Of the strange man whom we met at the house half way between New

York and Philadelphia. His name and his personality are wrapt in

impenetrable mystery."

"Had it not been for him--"

"Ay, had it not been for him, we should have been lost. You would

have become the prey of the--the _master_, Esther, who owns you, and

I,--I--well, no matter, I would have been dead."

"After the scene in THE _house_, Randolph, he came on with us, and by

his directions we took rooms at the City Hotel. From the moment of our

arrival, only a few hours ago, we did not see him, until--"

"Until an hour ago. Then he came into our room at the hotel. 'Here is a

key,' said he, 'and your home is No. ----, Broadway. Go there at once,

and await patiently the coming of the twenty-fifth of December.--You

will find servants to wait upon you, you will find money to supply your

wants,--it is in the drawer of the desk which you will discover in your

bedroom--and most of all, you will there be safe from the attempts

of your persecutor.' These were his words. We came at once, and find

ourselves--the servants excepted--the sole tenants of this splendid

mansion."

"But don't you remember his last words, as we left the hotel? 'At the

hour of six,' said he, this singular unknown, 'you will be waited on by

a much treasured friend.'--Who can it be that is to come and see us at

that hour?"

"Friend," Randolph echoed bitterly, "what '_friend_' have we, save this

personage, whose very name is unknown to us? Our father is dead. When I

say that I say at once that we are utterly alone in the world."

"And yet there is a career before you, Randolph," faltered Esther.

"A splendid career, ha, ha, Esther, yes a splendid career for the

White Slave! You forget, good girl, that we have negro blood in our

veins. How much wealth do you think it would require to blot out the

memory of the past? Suppose we are successful on the twenty-fifth of

December,--suppose the mysterious trustee of the Van Huyden estate

recognizes us as the children of one of the Seven,--suppose that we

receive a share of this immense wealth--well, Esther, what will it

avail us? Wherever we turn, the whisper will ring in our ears, 'They

have negro blood in their veins. Their mother was descended from the

black race. True, they look whiter than the palest of the Caucasian

race, but--but'--(do you hear it, Esther?) 'but they _have negro blood

in their veins_.'"

He started from his chair, and his sister saw, even by the dim light

which came through the half-drawn window-curtains, that his chest

heaved, and his face was distorted by a painful emotion.

She also arose.

"Randolph," she whispered, and laid her hand gently on his arm,

"Randolph, my brother, I say it again, come wealth or poverty, you have

a career before you. In Europe we may find a home,--"

"Europe!" he echoed, "And must we go to Europe, in order to be

permitted to live? No, Esther, no! I am an American, yes,"--and his

voice, low and deep, echoed proudly through the stillness of the

dimly-lighted room,--"yes, I am a Carolinian, ay, a South Carolinian;

South Carolina is my home; while I live, I will not cease to assert my

right to a place, ay, and no dishonorable place--on my native soil."

He passed his sister's arm through his own, and led her gently over the

carpet, which, soft as down, returned no echo to their tread. The lofty

ceiling stretched above them, in the vague twilight; and on either hand

were the walls adorned with paintings and statues. The mirror, which

but dimly reflected their forms, flashed gently through the gloom.

"And Esther, there is one reason why I will not become an exile, which

I have never spoken to mortal ears--not even to yours, my sister. It

was communicated to me by my father, before I left for Europe: he

placed _proofs_ in my possession which do not admit of denial. Sister,

my epistle!--Here, in the dimly-lighted room, to which we have been

guided by an unknown friend,--here, surrounded by mystery, and with the

marks of wealth all about us,--here, as the crisis of our fate draws

near, let me breathe the secret in your ears."

He paused in the center of the room. His sister felt his arm tremble

as he drew her to his side. His voice betrayed, in its earnest yet

faltering tones, an unfathomable emotion. And Esther clinging to his

side, and looking up into his face--which she could scarcely discern

through the gloom--felt her bosom swell, and her breath come painfully

in gasps, as she was made, involuntarily, a sharer of her brother's

agitation.

"Randolph," she said, "what can be the secret, which you have kept ever

from me, your sister?"

"I will not leave this country, in the first place, because I am of

its soil," he answered, "and because, first and last, it is no common

right, which binds me to my native land. Come, Esther, to the window,

where the light will help my words; you shall know all--"

He led her to the window, and drew from beneath his vest, a miniature,

which he held toward the fading light.

"Do you trace the features?" he whispered.

"I do. It is beautifully painted, and the likeness resembles a thousand

others, that I have seen of the same man. But what has this portrait in

miniature to do with us?"

"What has it to do with us? Regard it again, and closely, my sister. Do

you not trace a resemblance?"

"Resemblance to whom?" Esther echoed. "Why it is the portrait of ----

----."

She repeated a name familiar to the civilized world.

"It is _his_ portrait. No one can deny it. But Esther, again I ask

you,--" his voice sunk low and lower.--"Do you not trace a resemblance?"

"Resemblance to whom?" she answered, her tone indicating bewildered

amazement.

"To the picture of OUR MOTHER, which you have seen at Hill Royal," was

Randolph's answer.

Utterly bewildered, Esther once more examined the miniature; and an

idea, so strange, so wild that she deemed it but the idle fancy of a

dream, began to take shape in her brain.

"I am in the dark, I know not what you mean. True, true, the face

portrayed in miniature does, somewhat, resemble our mother's portrait,

but--"

"That miniature, Esther, is the portrait of the Head of our Family.

That man,--" again he pronounced the name,--"was the father of our

mother. We are his grandchildren, my sister."

Esther suffered the miniature to fall from her hand. She sank back into

a chair.

For a few moments, there was a death-like pause, unbroken by a single

word.

"The grandchildren of ---- ----!" echoed Esther, at length. "You

cannot mean it, Randolph?"

Randolph bent his head until his lips well-nigh touched his sister's

ear. At the same moment he clasped her hard with a painful pressure.

The words which he then uttered were uttered in a whisper, but every

word penetrated the soul of the listener.

"Esther, we are the grandchildren of that man whose name is on the lips

of the civilized world. Our mother was _his_ child. _His_ blood flows

in our veins. We are of _his_ race; _his_ features may be traced in

your countenance and in mine. Now let them cut and hack and maim us:

let them lash us at the whipping-post, or sell us in the slave mart.

At every blow of the lash, we can exclaim, 'Lash on! lash on! But

remember, you are inflicting this torture upon no common slaves; for

your whip at every blow is stained with the blood of ---- ----. These

slaves whom you lash are HIS grandchildren!'"

He paused, overcome by the violence of his emotion. In a moment he

resumed:

"And it is because I am HIS grandson, that I will not exile myself

from this land, which was HIS birthplace as it is mine. Yes, I cannot

exile myself, for the reason that my GRANDFATHER left to my hands

the fulfillment of an awful trust--of a work which, well fulfilled,

will secure the happiness of all the races who people the American

continent. I may become a suicide, but an exile,--never!"

"But our mother, was the daughter of Colonel Rawden. So the rumor ran,

and so you stated before the Court of Ten Millions."

"In that statement I simply followed the popular rumor, for the time

for the _entire truth_ had not yet come. But our mother was not the

child of Colonel Rawden. Her mother was indeed Rawden's slave, but not

one drop of Rawden's blood flows in our veins. Colonel Rawden was aware

of the truth; well he knew that HERODIA, whom he sold to our father,

was the child of ---- ----."

There was a pause: and it was not broken until Esther spoke:

"You would not like to return to Europe, then?"

"For one reason, and one only, I would like to visit Europe."

"And that reason?"

"Know, Esther, that at Florence, in the course of a hurried tour

through Italy, I met a gentleman named Bernard Lynn. His native country

I never ascertained; he was near fifty years of age; gentlemanly in

his exterior, of reputed wealth, and accompanied by an only daughter,

Eleanor Lynn. At Florence,--it matters not how,--I saved his daughter's

life--ay, more than life, her honor. All his existence was wrapt up in

her; you may, therefore, imagine the extent of his gratitude to the

young American who saved the life of this idolized child."

"Was the girl grateful, as well as the father?"

"I remained but a week in their company, and then separated, to see

them no more forever. That week was sufficient to assure me that I

loved her better than my life,--that my passion was returned; and

could I but forget the negro blood which mingles in my veins, I might

boldly claim her as my own. Her father had but one prominent hatred:

mild and gentlemanly on all other subjects, he was ferocious at the

sight or mention of a negro. He regarded the African race as a libel

upon mankind; a link between the monkey and the man; a caricature of

the human race; the work of Nature, in one of her _unlucky_ moods.

Conscious that there was negro blood in my veins, I left him abruptly.

With this consciousness I could not press my suit for the hand of his

daughter."

"But you would like to see her again?"

"Could I meet her as an equal, yes! But never can I look upon her face

again. Don't you see, Esther, how at every turn of life, I am met by

the fatal whisper, 'There is _negro blood in your veins_!'"

"She was beautiful?"

"One of the fairest types of the Caucasian race, that ever eye beheld.

Tall in stature, her form cast in a mould of enticing loveliness, her

complexion like snow, yet blushing with roses on the lip and cheek; her

hair, brown in the sunlight, and dark in the shade; her eyes of a shade

between brown and black, and always full of the light of all-abounding

youth and hope.--Yes, she was beautiful, transcendently beautiful! She

had the intellect of an affectionate but proud and ambitious woman."

"You saved her life?"

"I saved her honor."

"Her honor?"

"So beautiful, so young, so gifted, she attracted the attention of an

Italian nobleman, who sued in vain for her hand. Foiled in his efforts

to obtain her in honorable marriage, he determined to possess her at

all hazards. One night, as herself and her father were returning to

Florence, after a visit to Valambrosa, the carriage was attacked by

a band of armed ruffians. The father was stretched insensible, by a

blow upon the temple, from the hilt of a sword. When he recovered his

senses, he was alone, and faint with the loss of blood. His daughter

had disappeared. He made out, at length, to get back to Florence,

and instituted a search for his child. His efforts were fruitless.

Suspicion rested upon the rejected lover, but he appeared before the

father, and to the father's satisfaction established his innocence.

At this period, when the father had relinquished all hope, I assumed

the disguise of a traveling student, armed myself and departed from

Florence. I bent my steps to the Apennines. A servant of the nobleman,

impelled at once by a bribe, and by revenge for ill-treatment, had

imparted certain intelligence to me; upon this information I shaped my

course. In an obscure nook of the Apennines, separated from the main

road by a wilderness frequented by banditti, I found the daughter of

Bernard Lynn. She was a prisoner in a miserable inn, which was kept by

a poor knave, in the pay of the robbers. I entered the room in which

she was imprisoned, in time to rescue her from the nobleman, who had

reached the inn before me, and who was about to carry his threats into

force. Had I been a moment later, her honor would have been sacrificed.

A combat ensued: Eleanor saw me peril my life for her; and saw the

villain laid insensible at her feet. She fainted in my arms. It matters

not to tell how I bore her back to her father, who confessed that I

had done a deed, which could never be suitably rewarded, although he

might sacrifice his fortune and his life, in the effort to display his

gratitude."

"By what name did they know you?"

"As Randolph Royalton, the son of a gentleman of South Carolina. From

this I am afraid the father built false impressions of my social

position and my wealth. Afraid to tell Eleanor the truth, I left them

without one word of farewell."

At this moment, a door was opened, and the light of a wax candle,

held in the hand of a servant who occupied the doorway, flashed over

the details of the drawing-room, lighting up the scene with a sudden

splendor. The servant was a man of middle age and of a calm, sober

look. He was clad in a suit of gray, faced with black velvet.

The light revealed the brother and sister as they stood in the center

of the scene; Esther, clad in the green habit which fitted closely

to her beautiful shape, and Randolph attired in a black coat, vest and

cravat, which presented a strong contrast to his pallid visage.

The servant bowed formally upon the threshold, and advanced, holding a

salver of silver in one hand and the candle in the other. As soon as he

had traversed the space between Randolph and the door, he bowed again,

and extended the salver, upon which appeared a card, inscribed with a

name--

"Master, a gentleman desires to see you. He is in his carriage at the

door. He gave me this card for you."

Randolph exchanged glances with Esther, as much as to say "our expected

visitor," and then took the card, and read these words:

"_An old friend desires to see Randolph Royalton and his sister._"

Randolph started as he beheld the handwriting, and the blood rushed to

his cheek:

"Show the gentleman up stairs," he said quietly.

The servant disappeared, taking with him the light, and the room was

wrapt in twilight once more.

"Have you any idea who is this visitor?" whispered Esther.

"Hush! Do not speak! Surrounded by mystery as we are, this new wonder

throws all others completely into shade. I can scarcely believe it; and

yet, it was _his_ handwriting! I cannot be mistaken."

In vain did Esther ask, "Whose handwriting?" Trembling with anxiety and

delight, Randolph listened intently for the sound of footsteps on the

stairs.

Presently there came a sound, as of footsteps ascending a stairway,

covered with thick carpet; and then the door opened and the servant

stood on the threshold, light in hand:

"This way, sir, this way," he exclaimed, and entered: while Randolph

and Esther's gaze was centered on the doorway; the servant in gray

rapidly lighted the wax candles, which stood on the marble mantle, and

the spacious room was flooded with radiance.

"Ah, ha, my dear boy, have I caught you at last?" cried a harsh but a

cheerful voice, and an elderly man, wrapped in a cloak, crossed the

threshold, and approached Randolph with rapid steps.

"Mr. Lynn!" ejaculated Randolph, utterly astonished.

"Yes, your old friend, whom you so abruptly left at Florence, without

so much as a word of good-bye! How are you, my dear fellow? Give me a

shake of your hand. Miss Royalton, I presume?"

By no means recovered from his bewilderment, Randolph managed to

present Mr. Bernard Lynn to his sister, whom he called "Miss Esther

Royalton."

The visitor gave his hat and cloak to the servant, and flung himself

into an arm-chair. He was a gentleman of some fifty years, dark

complexion, and with masses of snow-white hair. His somewhat portly

form was attired in a blue frock coat, beneath which the collar of a

buff waistcoat and a black stock were discernible.

"Come, come, Randolph, my boy, let me chat with Miss Esther, while you

attend to your servant, who, if I may judge by his telegraphic signs,

has something to say to you in regard to your household affairs."

Randolph turned and was confronted by the servant, Mr. Hicks, who bowed

low, and said in a tone which was audible through the room--

"At what hour will you have dinner served?" and then added in a

whisper, "_I wish to speak with you alone_."

"At seven, as I directed you, when I first arrived," replied Randolph,

and followed the servant from the drawing-room.

Mr. Hicks led the way, down the broad staircase, to the spacious hall

on the lower floor, which was now illuminated by a large globe lamp.

"Pardon me, Mr. Royalton," said Mr. Hicks, "for troubling you about

the dinner hour. That, if you will excuse me for saying so, was only a

pretext. Your Agent, who arrived before you, to-day, and engaged myself

and the other domestics, gave me especial directions, to prepare dinner

to-night, at seven precisely. It was not about the hour of dinner,

therefore, that I wished to see you, for we all know our duty, and you

may rely upon it, that all the _appointments_ of this mansion, are in

good hands."

"Right, Mr. Hicks, right, may I ask whether my Agent, who was here

to-day, wore an odd dress which he sometimes wears, a,--a--"

"A blue surtout, with a great many capes? Yes, sir. The fashion in the

south, I presume."

"_It was then my unknown friend of the half-way-house,_" thought

Randolph: presently, he said, "Why did you call me from the

drawing-room?"

Mr. Hicks bowed his formal bow, and pointed to a door of dark mahogany:

"If you will have the kindness to enter that room, you will know why I

called you."

And Mr. Hicks bowed again, and retreated slowly from the scene.

Placing his hand upon the door, Randolph felt his heart beat

tumultuously against his breast.

"Yesterday, a hunted slave," the thought rushed over him, "and to-day,

the master of a mansion, and with a train of servants to obey my nod!

So, my unknown friend in the surtout, with blue capes, was here to-day,

acting the part of my 'Agent.' What new wonder awaits me, beyond this

door?"

He opened the door, and he trembled, although he was anything but a

coward. The room into which he entered, was about half as large as the

drawing-room above. A lamp standing in the center of the carpet, shed

a soft luxurious luster over the walls, which, white as snow, were

adorned with one mirror, and three or four pictures, set in frames

of black and gold. At a glance, in one of these frames, Randolph

recognized the portrait of his father. The windows, opening on the

street, were vailed with damask curtains. A piano stood in one corner,

a sofa opposite, and elegant chairs of dark wood, were disposed around

the room. It was at once a neat, singular, and somewhat luxurious

apartment.

And on the sofa, was seated the figure of a woman, closely vailed. Her

dark attire was in strong contrast with the scarlet cushions on which

she rested, and the snow-white wall behind her.

Randolph stopped suddenly; he was stricken dumb, by a sensation of

utter bewilderment. The unknown did not remove the vail from her face;

she did not even move.

"You wish to see me, Madam?" he said, at length.

She drew the vail aside--he beheld her face,--and the next moment she

had bounded from the sofa and was resting in his arms.

"Eleanor!" he cried, as the vail removed, he beheld her face.

"Randolph!" she exclaimed, as he pressed her to his breast.

CHAPTER VIII.

ELEANOR LYNN.

In a few moments they were seated side by side on the sofa, and while

she spoke, in a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her with his eyes.

"We arrived from Europe, only the day before yesterday. Father

determined to visit New York, on our way to Havana, where we intend

to spend the winter. And to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel,

he encountered your Agent--the superintendent of your southern

plantation,--an eccentric person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout,

with I know not how many capes. From this gentleman, father learned

that you had just arrived from the south, and at once determined to

give you a surprise. We came together, but to tell you the truth, I

wanted to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered behind, while father

went up stairs to prepare you for my presence."

She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in a delicious dream, feared to

move or speak, lest the vision which he beheld might vanish into the

air.

Words are but poor things, with which to paint a beautiful woman.

There was youth and health in every line of her face: her form, incased

in a dark dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted around her neck,

was moulded in the warm loveliness of womanhood, at once mature and

virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her face was disclosed in full light.

A brow, denoting by its outline, a bold, yet refined intellect; an

eye, large, lustrous, and looking black by night; a lip that had as

much of pride as of love in its expression--such were the prominent

characteristics of her face.

"Why did you leave us so abruptly at Florence?" she exclaimed,--"Ah, I

know the secret--"

"You know the secret?" echoed Randolph, his heart mounting to his

throat.

"One of your friends in Florence--a young artist named Waters, betrayed

you," she said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a sunny smile

playing over her noble countenance. "At least after your departure he

told your secrets to father."

Randolph started from the sofa, as though a chasm had opened at his

feet.

"He betrayed me--he! And yet you do not scorn me?"

"Scorn you? Grave matter to create scorn! You have a quarrel with

your father, and leave home on a run-a-way tour for Europe. There, in

Europe,--we will say at Florence--you make friends, and run away from

them, because you are afraid they will think less of you, when they are

aware that your father _may_ disinherit you. Fie! Randolph, 'twas a

sorry thing, for you to think so meanly of your friends!"

These words filled Randolph with overwhelming agony.

When she first spoke, he was assured that the _secret of his life_,

was known to her. He was aghast at the thought, but at the same time,

overjoyed to know, that the _taint_ of his blood, was not regarded by

Eleanor as a crime.

But her concluding words revealed the truth. She was not aware of

the fact. She was utterly mistaken, as to his motive, for his abrupt

departure from Florence. Instead of the real cause, she assigned one

which was comparatively frivolous.

"Shall I tell her all?" the thought crossed his mind, as he gazed upon

her, and he shuddered at the idea.

"And so you thought that our opinion of you, was measured by your

wealth, or by your want of wealth? For shame Randolph! You are now

the sole heir of your father, but were it otherwise, Randolph, our

friendship for you would remain unchanged."

"The sole heir of my father's estate!" Randolph muttered to

himself,--"I dare not, dare not, tell her the real truth."

But the fascination of that woman's loveliness was upon him. The sound

of her voice vibrated through every fiber of his being. When he gazed

into her eyes, he forgot the darkness of his destiny, the taint of his

blood, the gloom of his heart, and the hopes and fears of his future.

He lived in the present moment, in the smile, the voice, the glance

of the woman who sat by him,--her presence was world, home, heaven to

him--all else was blank nothingness.

"Don't you think that I'm a very strange woman?" she said with a smile,

and a look of undefinable fascination. "Remember, from my childhood,

Randolph, I have been deprived of the care and counsel of a mother.

Without country and without home, I have been hurried with my father

from place to place, and seen much of the world, and may be learned

to battle with it. I am not much of a 'woman of society,' Randolph.

The artificial life led by woman in that conventional world, called

the 'fashionable,' never had much charm for me. My books, my pencil,

the society of a friend, the excitement of a journey, the freedom

to-speak my thoughts without fear of the world's frown,--these,

Randolph, suit me much better than the life of woman, as she appears

in the fashionable world. And whenever I transgress the 'decorums' and

'proprieties,' you will be pleased to remember that I am but a sort of

a wild woman--a very barbarian in the midst of a civilized world."

Randolph did not say that she was an angel, but he thought that she was

very beautiful for a wild woman.

She rose.

"Come, let us join father," she said,--"and I am dying to see this

sister of yours, friend Randolph."

Taking her bonnet in one hand, she left her cloak on the sofa, and

led the way to the door. At a glance Randolph surveyed her tall and

magnificent figure. As leaving him, silent and bewildered, on the

sofa, she turned her face over her shoulder, and looked back upon him,

Randolph muttered to himself the thought of his soul, in one word,

"negro!" So much beauty, purity and truth before him, embodied in a

woman's form, and between that woman and himself an eternal barrier!

The blood of an accursed race in his veins, the mark of bondage stamped

upon the inmost fiber of his existence--it was a bitter thought. "You

are absent, Randolph," she said, and came back to him, "shall I guess

your thoughts?" She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent down

until he felt her breath upon his forehead.

"You are thinking of the _night in the Apennines_?" she whispered.

Randolph uttered an incoherent cry of rapture, and reached forth his

arms, and drew her to his breast.--Their lips met--"You have not

forgotten it?" he whispered.

She drew back her head as she was girdled by his arms, in order to gaze

more freely upon his face. Blushing from the throat to the forehead,

not with shame, but with a passion as warm and as pure as ever lighted

a woman's bosom, she answered in a whisper:

"Randolph, I love you!"

"Love me! Ah, my God, could I but hope," he gasped.

She laid her hand upon his mouth.

"Hush, I am my father's child. We happen to think alike on subjects of

importance. If you have not changed since the night in the Apennines,

why--why, then Randolph, you will find that I am the same. As for my

father, he always loved you."

When a woman like Eleanor Lynn gives herself away, thus freely and

without reserve, you may be sure that the passion which she cherishes

is not of an hour, a day, or a year, but of a lifetime.

Randolph could not reply in coherent words. There was a wild

ejaculation, a frenzied embrace, a kiss which joined together these

souls, burning with the fire of a first and stainless love, but there

was no reply in words.

And all the while, behind the form of Eleanor, Randolph saw a phantom

shape, which stood between him and his dearest hope. A hideous phantom,

which said, "Thou art young, and thy face is pale as the palest of the

race who are born to rule, but the blood of the negro is in thy veins."

At length Randolph rose, and taking her by the hand, led her from the

room.

"You will see my sister, and love her," said Randolph, as he crossed

the threshold. A hand was laid gently on his arm, and turning he beheld

Mr. Hicks, who slipped a letter in his hand, whispering,--

"Pardon me, sir. This was left half an hour ago."

Randolph had no time to read a letter at that moment, so placing

it in his coat pocket, he led Eleanor up-stairs. They entered the

drawing-room, and were received by her father with a laugh, and the

exclamation,--

"So, my boy, you have found this wild girl of mine a _second_ time!

Confess that we have given you one of the oddest surprises you ever

encountered!"

Presently Esther and Eleanor stood face to face, and took each other by

the hand.--Both noble-looking women, of contrasted types of loveliness,

they stood before the father and Randolph, who gazed upon them with a

look of silent admiration.

"So, you are Esther!" whispered the daughter of Bernard Lynn.

"And you are Eleanor!" returned the sister of Randolph.

"We shall love each other very much," said Eleanor,--"Come, let us talk

a little."

They went hand in hand to a recess near the window, and sat down

together, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone, near the center of the

drawing-room.

"Do you know, my boy, that I have a notion to make your house our

home, while we remain in New York? I hate the noise of a hotel, and

so using a traveler's privilege, of bluntness, I'll invite myself and

Eleanor to be your guests. I have letters to the 'first people' of the

city, but these 'first people,' as they are called, are pretty much

the same everywhere--cut out of the same piece of cloth, all over the

world--they tire one dreadfully. If you have no objection, my friend,

we'll stay with you for a few days at least."

"Of course," Randolph replied to Mr. Lynn in the warmest and most

courteous manner, concluding with the words, "Esther and myself will be

too happy to have you for our guests. Make our house your home while

you remain in New York, and--" he was about to add "forever!"

Mr. Lynn took him warmly by the hand.

"And in a few days, he _must_ learn that I am not the legitimate son

of my father, but his _slave_," the thought crossed him as he shook

the hand of Eleanor's father. "This Aladdin's palace will crumble

into ashes, and this gentleman who now respects me, will turn away in

derision from Randolph, the slave."

It was a horrible thought.

At this moment Mr. Hicks entered, and announced that dinner was ready.

They left the room, Randolph with Eleanor on his arm, and Mr. Lynn with

Esther, and bent their steps toward the dining-room. On the threshold

Mr. Hicks slipped a letter in the hand of Esther, "It was left for you,

Miss, half an hour ago," he said, and made one of his mechanical bows.

Esther took the letter and placed it in her bosom, and Mr. Hicks threw

open the door of the dining-room.

Randolph could scarce repress an ejaculation of wonder, as (for the

first time) he beheld this apartment.

It was a spacious room, oval in shape, and with a lofty ceiling, which

was slightly arched. The walls were covered with pale lilac hangings,

and fine statues of white marble stood at equal distances around the

place. In the center stood the table, loaded with viands, and adorned

with an alabaster vase, filled with freshly-gathered flowers.--Wax

candles shed a mild light over the scene, and the air was imbued

at once with a pleasant warmth and with the breath of flowers. The

service of plate which loaded the table was of massive gold. Everything

breathed luxury and wealth.

"You planters know how to live!" whispered Bernard Lynn: "By George,

friend Randolph, you are something of a republican, but it is after the

Roman school!"

In accordance with Randolph's request, Mr. Lynn took the head of the

table, with Esther and Eleanor on either hand. Randolph took his seat

opposite the father of Eleanor, and gazed around with a look of vague

astonishment. A servant clad in gray livery, fringed with black velvet,

stood behind each chair, and Mr. Hicks, the imperturbable, retired

somewhat in the background, presided in silence over the progress of

the banquet.

"We are not exactly dressed for dinner," laughed Mr. Lynn,--"but you

will excuse our breach of that most solemn code, profounder than

Blackstone or Vattel, and called _Etiquette_."

Randolph gazed first at his dark hair, which betrayed some of the

traces of hazel, and at the costume of Esther, which although it

displayed her form to the best advantage, was not precisely suited for

the dinner-table.

"Ah, we southrons care little for etiquette," he replied,--"only to-day

arrived from the south, Esther and I have had little time to attend to

the niceties of costume. By-the-bye, friend Lynn, yourself and daughter

are in the same predicament." And then he muttered to himself, "Still

the dress is better than the costume of a negro slave."

The dinner passed pleasantly, with but little conversation, and that

of a light and chatty character. The servants, stationed behind each

chair, obeyed the wishes of the guests before they were framed in

words; and Mr. Hicks in the background, managed their movements by

signs, somewhat after the fashion of an orchestra leader. It was near

eight o'clock when Esther and Eleanor retired, leaving Randolph and Mr.

Lynn alone at the table.

"Dismiss these folks," said Bernard Lynn, pointing toward Mr. Hicks and

the other servants, "and let us have a chat together." At a sign from

Randolph, Mr. Hicks and the servants left the room.

"Draw your chair near me,--there,--let us look into each other's

faces. By George! friend Randolph, your wine cellar must be worthy of

a prince or a bishop! I have just sipped your Tokay, and tasted your

Champagne,--both are superb. But as I am a traveler, I drink brandy. So

pass the bottle."

As Mr. Lynn, seated at his ease, filled a capacious goblet with brandy

from a bottle labeled "1796," Randolph surveyed attentively his face

and form.

CHAPTER IX.

BERNARD LYNN.

Bernard Lynn was a tall and muscular man, somewhat inclined to

corpulence. His dark complexion was contrasted with the masses of

snow-white hair, which surrounded his forehead, and the eyebrows, also

white, which gave additional luster to his dark eyes. His features were

regular, and there were deep furrows upon his forehead and around his

mouth. Despite the good-humored smile which played about his lips, and

the cheerful light which flowed from his eyes, there was at times, a

haggard look upon his face. One moment all cheerfulness and animation,

the next instant his face would wear a faded look; the corners of his

mouth would fall; and his eye become vacant and lusterless.

He emptied the goblet of brandy without once taking it from his lips,

and the effect was directly seen in his glowing countenance and

sparkling eyes.

"Ah! that is good brandy," he cried, smacking his lips, and sinking

back in his chair. "You think I am a deep drinker?" he remarked, after

a moment's pause.--"Do not wonder at it. There are times in a man's

life when he is forced to choose between the brandy bottle and the

knife of the suicide."

At the word, his head sunk and his countenance became clouded and

sullen.

Before Randolph could reply, he raised his head and exclaimed gayly:

"Do you know, my boy, that I have been a great traveler? Three times I

have encircled the globe. I have seen most of what is to be seen under

the canopy of heaven. I have been near freezing to death in Greenland,

and have been burned almost to a cinder by the broiling sun of India.

To-day, in the saloons of Paris; a month after in the midst of an

Arabian desert; and the third month, a wanderer among the ruins of

ancient Mexico and Yucatan. I have tried all climates, lived with all

sorts of people, and seen sights that would make the Arabian Nights

seem but poor and tame by contrast. And now, my boy, I'm tired."

And the wan, haggard look came over his face, as he uttered the word

"_tired_."

"Your daughter has not accompanied you in these pilgrimages?"

"No. From childhood she was left under careful guardianship, in the

bosom of an English family, who lived in Florence. Poor child! I have

often wondered what she has thought of me! To-day I have been with

her in Florence, and within two months she has received a letter from

me, from the opposite side of the globe. But as I said before, I am

_tired_. Were it not for one thing I would like to settle down in your

country. A fine country,--a glorious country,--only one fault, and that

very likely will eat you all up."

"Before I ask the nature of the fault, pardon me for an impertinent

question. Of what country are you? You speak of the English as a

foreign people; of the Americans in the same manner; yet you speak the

language without the slightest accent."

The countenance of Mr. Lynn became clouded and sullen.

"I am of no country," he said harshly. "I ceased to have a country,

about the time Eleanor was born. But another time," his tone became

milder, "I may tell you all about it."

"And the fault of our country?" said Randolph, anxious to divert the

thoughts of his friend from some painful memory, which evidently

absorbed his mind, "what is it?"

Mr. Lynn once more filled and slowly drained his goblet.

"You are the last person to whom I may speak of this fault,--"

"How so?"

"You are a planter. You have been reared under peculiar influences.

Your mind from childhood has been imperceptibly moulded into a

certain form, and that form it is impossible to change. You cannot

see, as I can; for I am a spectator, and you are in the center of the

conflagration, which I observe from a distance. No, no, Randolph,

I can't speak of it to you. But you planters will be wakened some

day--you will. God help you in your awakening--hem!"

Randolph's face became pale as death.

"You speak, my friend, of the question of negro slavery. You surely

don't consider it an evil. You--you--_hate_ the very mention of the

race."

Shading his eyes with his uplifted hand, Bernard Lynn said, with slow

and measured distinctness:

"Do I hate the race? Yes, if you could read my heart, you would find

hatred to the African race written on its every fiber. The very name

of negro fills me with loathing." He uttered an oath, and continued in

a lower tone: "By what horrible fatality was that accursed race ever

planted upon the soil of the New World!"

Randolph felt his blood boil in his veins; his face was flashed; he

breathed in gasps.

"And then it is not sympathy for the negro, that makes you look with

aversion upon the institution of American slavery?"

"Sympathy for a libel upon the race--a hybrid composed of the monkey

and the man? The idea is laughable. Were the negro in Africa--his own

country--I might tolerate him. But his presence in any shape, as a

dweller among people of the white race, is a curse to that race, more

horrible than the plagues of Egypt or the fires of Gomorrah."

"It is, then, the _influence of negro slavery upon the white race_,

which concerns you?" faltered Randolph.

"_It is the influence of negro slavery upon the white race_ which

concerns me," echoed Lynn, with bitter emphasis: "But you are a

planter. I cannot talk to you. To mention the subject to one of you, is

to set you in a blaze. By George! how the devils must laugh when they

see us poor mortals, so eager in the pursuit of our own ruin,--so merry

as we play with hot coals in the midst of a powder magazine!"

"You may speak to me upon this subject," said Randolph, drawing a long

breath, "and speak freely."

"It won't do. You are all blind. There, for instance, is the greatest

man among you; his picture hangs at your back--"

Randolph turned and beheld, for the first time, a portrait which hung

against the wall behind. It was a sad, stern face, with snow-white

hair, and a look of intellect, moulded by an iron Destiny. It was the

likeness of JOHN C. CALHOUN,--Calhoun, the John Calvin of Political

Economy.

"I knew him when he was a young man," continued Lynn, "I have met and

conversed with him. Mind, I do not say that we were _intimate friends_!

A braver man, a truer heart, a finer intellect, never lived beneath

the sun. _Then_ he felt the evils of this horrible system, and felt

that the only remedy, was the removal of the entire race to Africa.

Yes, he felt that the black man could only exist beside the white,

to the utter degradation of the latter. _Now_, ha! ha! he has grown

into the belief, that Slavery,--in other words, _the presence of the

black race in the midst of the white_,--is a blessing. To that belief

he surrenders everything, intellect, heart, soul, the hope of power,

and the approbation of posterity. When Calhoun is blind, how can you

planters be expected to see?"

Randolph was silent. "There is in my veins, the blood of this accused

race," he muttered to himself.

"In order to look up some of the results of this system," continued

Bernard Lynn, "let us look at some of the characteristics of the

American people. The north is a trader; it traffics; it buys; it sells;

it meets every question with the words, '_Will it pay?_' (As a gallant

southron once said to me; 'When the north choose a patron saint, a new

name will be added to the calendar, "SAINT PICAYUNE"'). The South is

frank, generous, hospitable; there are the virtues of ideal chivalry

among the southern people. And yet, the north prospers in every sense,

while the south,--_what is the future of the South?_ The west, noble,

generous, and free from the traits which mark a nation of mere

traffickers, _is just what the south would be, were it_ FREE FROM THE

BLACK RACE. Think of that, friend Randolph! You may glean a bit of

solid truth from the disconnected remarks of an old traveler."

"But you have not yet instanced a single evil of our institution,"

interrupted Randolph.

"Are you from the south, and yet, ask me to give you instances of the

evils of slavery? Pshaw! I tell you man, the evil of slavery consists

in the presence of the black race in the midst of the whites. That is

the sum of the matter. You cannot elevate that race save at the expense

of the whites--not the expense of money, mark you,--but at the expense

of the physical and mental features of the white race. Don't I speak

plain enough? The two races cannot live together and _not_ mingle. You

know it to be impossible. And do you pretend to say, that the mixture

of black and white, can produce anything but an accursed progeny,

destitute of the good qualities of each race, and by their very origin,

at war with both African and Caucasian? Nay, you need not hold your

head in your hands. It is blunt truth, but it is truth."

The bolt had struck home. Randolph had buried his face in his

hands,--"I am one of these hybrids," he muttered in agony; "at war at

the same time, with the race of my father and my mother."

"But, how would you remedy this evil?" he asked, without raising his

head.

"Remove the whole race to Africa," responded Lynn.

"How can this be done?"

"By one effort of southern will. Instead of attempting to defend the

system, let the southern people resolve at once, that the _presence of

the black race_, is the greatest curse that can befall America. This

resolution made, the means will soon follow. One-fourth the expenses of

a five years' war would transport the negroes to Africa. One-twentieth

part of the sum, which will be expended in the next ten years (I say

nothing of the past) in the quarrel of north and south, about this

matter, would do the work and do it well. And then, _free from the

black race_, the south would go to work and mount to her destiny."

"But, what will become of the race, when they are transported to

Africa?"

"If they are really of the human family, they will show it, by the

civilization of Africa. They will establish a Nationality for the

Negro, and plant the arts on seashore and desert. Apart from the white

race, they can rise into their destiny."

"And if nothing is done?" interrupted Randolph.

"If the south continues to defend, and the north to quarrel about

slavery,--if instead of making one earnest effort to do something with

the evil, they break down national good-feeling, and waste millions of

money in mutual threats,--why, in that case, it needs no prophet to

foretell the future of the south. That future will realize one of two

conditions--"

He paused, and after a moment, repeated with singular emphasis, "_St.

Domingo!--St. Domingo!_"

"And the other condition," said Randolph.

"The whole race will be stript of all its noble qualities, and

swallowed up in a race, composed of black and white, and cursing the

very earth they tread. In the south, the white race will in time be

_annihilated_. That garden of the world, composed, I know not of how

many states,--extending from the middle states to the gulf, and from

the Atlantic to the Mississippi,--will repeat on a colossal scale, the

horrible farce, which the world has seen, in the case of St. Domingo."

Bernard Lynn again filled his goblet, and slowly sipped the brandy,

while the fire faded from his eyes, the corners of his mouth fell,--his

face became faded and haggard again.

Randolph, seated near him, his elbow on his knee, and his forehead

supported by his hand, was buried in thought. His face was averted from

the light: the varied emotions which convulsed it in every lineament,

were concealed from the observation of Bernard Lynn.

Thus they remained for a long time, each buried in his own peculiar

thoughts.

"Randolph," said Bernard Lynn,--and there was something so changed and

singular in his tone, that Randolph started--"draw near to me. I wish

to speak with you."

Randolph looked up, and was astonished by the change which had passed

over the face of the traveler. His eyes flashed wildly, his features

were one moment fixed and rigid and the next, tremulous and quivering

with strong emotion; the veins were swollen on his broad forehead.

"Randolph," he said, in a low, agitated voice, "I am a Carolinian."

"A Carolinian?" echoed Randolph.

"The name of Bernard Lynn is not my real name. It is an assumed name,

Randolph. Assumed, do you hear me?" his eyes flashed more wildly, and

he seized Randolph's hand, and unconsciously wrung it with an almost

frenzied clutch--"Assumed some seventeen years ago, when I forsook my

home, my native soil, and became a miserable wanderer on the face of

the earth. Do you know why I assumed that name,--do you know?--"

He paused as if suffocated by his emotions. After a moment he resumed

in a lower, deeper voice,--

"Did you ever hear the name of ---- ----?"

"It is the name of one of the first and oldest families of Carolina,"

responded Randolph. "A name renowned in her history, but now extinct, I

believe."

"That is my name, my real name, which I have forsaken forever, for

the one which I now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. "I am the last male

representative of the family. Seventeen years ago my name disappeared

from Carolina. I left home--my native land--all the associations that

make life dear, and became a miserable exile. And why?"

He uttered an oath, which came sharp and hissing through his clenched

teeth.

Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if fascinated, gazed silently into

the flashing eyes of Bernard Lynn.

"I was young,--rich,--the inheritor of an honored name," continued

Bernard Lynn, in hurried tones,--"and I was married, Randolph, married

to a woman of whom Eleanor is the living picture,--a woman as noble in

soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod God's earth. One year after

our marriage, when Eleanor was a babe,--nearer to me, Randolph,--I left

my plantation in the evening, and went on a short visit to Charleston.

I came home the next day, and where I had left my wife living and

beautiful, I found only a mangled and dishonored corpse."

His head fell upon his breast,--he could not proceed.

"This is too horrible!" ejaculated Randolph,--"too horrible to be real."

Bernard raised his head, and clutching Randolph's hands--

"The sun was setting, and his beams shone warmly through the western

windows as I entered the bedchamber. Oh! I can see it yet,--I can see

it now,--the babe sleeping on the bed, while the mother is stretched

upon the floor, lifeless and weltering in her blood. Murdered and

dishonored--murdered and dishonored--"

As though those words, "murdered and dishonored," had choked his

utterance, he paused, and uttered a groan, and once more his head fell

on his breast.

At this moment, even as Randolph, absorbed by the revelation, sits

silent and pale, gazing upon the bended head of the old man,--at this

moment look yonder, and behold the form of a woman, who with finger on

her lip, stands motionless near the threshold.

Randolph is not aware of her presence--the old man cannot see her, for

there is agony like death in his heart, and his head is bowed upon his

breast; but there she stands, motionless as though stricken into stone,

by the broken words which she has heard.

It is Eleanor Lynn.

On the very threshold she was arrested by the deep tones of her

father's voice,--she listened,--and for the first time heard the story

of her mother's death.

And now, stepping backward, her eye riveted on her father's form, she

seeks to leave the room unobserved,--she reaches the threshold, when

her father's voice is heard once more:--

"Ask me not for details, ask me not," he cried in broken tones, as once

more he raised his convulsed countenance to the light "The author of

this outrage was not a man, but a negro,--a demon in a demon's shape;

and"--he smiled, but there was no merriment in his smile,--"and now you

know why I left home, native land, all the associations which make life

dear, seventeen years ago. Now you know why I hate the accursed race."

As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from the room.

CHAPTER X.

"YES, YOU WILL MEET HIM."

As midnight drew near, Randolph was alone in his bedchamber,--a

spacious chamber, magnificently furnished, and illumined by a single

candle, which stood upon a rosewood table near the lofty bed. Seated

in a chair, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and an opened

letter in his hand, Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound thought.

His face was very pale; a slight trembling of the lip, an occasional

heaving of the chest, alone made him appear less motionless than a

statue.

The letter which he held was the one which Mr. Hicks had given him,

some three hours before, but he did not seem to be occupied with its

contents.

"It look like a bridal chamber," he muttered, as his eye roved round

the spacious apartment, "and this white couch like a bridal bed,"--a

bitter smile crossed his face. "Think of it--the bridal bed of Eleanor

Lynn and--the white slave!"

And he relapsed into his reverie; or rather, into a train of thought,

which had occupied him for two hours at least, while he sat silent and

motionless in his chamber.

Oh, dark and bitter thoughts--filling every vein with fire, and

swelling every avenue of the brain with the hot pulsations of madness!

The image of Eleanor, the story told two hours ago by Bernard Lynn,

and the taint that corrupted the life-blood in his veins,--all these

mingled in his thoughts, and almost drove him mad.

"And from this labyrinth, what way of escape? Will Eleanor be mine,

when she learns that I am of the accursed race of the wretch who first

dishonored and then outraged her mother? And the father,--ah!"

He passed his hand over his brow, as if to banish these thoughts, and

then perused the letter which he held in his hand,--

"It is signed by my 'unknown friend of the half-way house,' and desires

me, for certain reasons, to be at a particular locality, in the Five

Points, at ten minutes past twelve. It is now,"--he took his gold watch

from his pocket,--"half past eleven. I must be moving. A singular

request, and a mysterious letter; but I will obey."

On the table lay a leather belt, in which were inserted two

bowie-knives and a revolving pistol. Randolph wound it about his waist,

and then drew a cap over his brow, and gathered his cloak more closely

to his form.

He next extinguished the candle, and stole softly from the room. As

he descended the stairway, all was still throughout the mansion. The

servants had retired, and Eleanor, Esther, and the old man, no doubt,

were sound asleep. Randolph passed along the hall, and opening the

front door, crossed its threshold.

"Now for the adventure," he ejaculated, and hurried down Broadway.

After nearly half an hour's walk, he turned into one of those streets

which lead from the light and uproar of Broadway, toward the region

of the Tombs.

Darkness was upon the narrow street, and his footsteps alone broke the

dead stillness, as he hurried along.

As he reached a solitary lamp, which gave light to a portion of the

street, his ear caught the echo of footsteps behind: and impelled by

an impulse which he could not himself comprehend, Randolph paused,

and concealed his form in the shadow of a deep doorway. From where he

stood, by the light of the lamp, (which was not five paces distant,) he

could command a view of any wayfarer who might chance to pass along the

deserted street.

The footsteps drew nearer, and presently two persons came in sight.

They halted beneath the lamp. Randolph could not see their faces, but

he remarked that one was short and thick-set in form, while the other

was tall and commanding. The tall one wore a cloak, and the other an

overcoat.

And Randolph heard their voices--

"Are we near the hound? My back hurts like the devil, and I don't wish

to go any farther than is necessary."

"Only a block or two, to go," replied the other. "Judas Iscariot! Just

think that we're sure to find _him_ there, Royalton, and your back

won't hurt a bit."

"Oh, by ----! let me but find _him_, and stand face to face with _him_,

and I'll take care of the rest."

These words, accompanied by an oath, and uttered with the emphasis of a

mortal hatred, were all that Randolph heard.

The twain proceeded on their way.

It was not until the sound of their footsteps had died away, that

Randolph emerged from his hiding-place--

"Yes, you will meet _him_, and stand face to face with _him_, and--the

rest is yet to be known."

He felt for his knives and pistols,--they were safe in the belt about

his waist; and then, conscious that the crisis of his fate was near at

hand, he silently pursued his way.

Return for a moment to the house in Broadway.

Esther is there, alone in her chamber, standing before a mirror, with

a light in her hand. The mirror reaches from the ceiling to the floor;

and never did mirror image forth before, a face and form so perfectly

beautiful.

She has changed her attire. The green habit no longer incloses her

form. A dress or robe of spotless white, leaves her neck and shoulders

bare, rests in easy folds upon her proud bust, and is girdled gently

to her waist by a sash of bright scarlet. The sleeves are wide, the

folds loose and flowing, and the sleeves and the hem of the skirt are

bordered by a line of crimson. The only ornament which she wears is not

a diamond, brooch or bracelet, not even a ring upon her delicate hand,

but a single lily, freshly gathered, which gleams pure and white from

the blackness of her hair.

And what need she of ornament? A very beautiful woman, with a noble

form, a voluptuous bust; a face pale as marble, ripening into vivid

bloom on the lip and cheek, relieved by jet-black hair, and illumined

by eyes that, flashing from their deep fringes, burn with wild, with

maddening light. A very beautiful woman, who, as she surveys herself

in the mirror, knows that she is beautiful, and feels her pulse swell,

her bosom heave slowly into light, her blood bound with the fullness of

life in every vein.

One hand holds the light above her dark hair--the other the letter

which, three hours and more ago, she received from Mr. Hicks.

"It requested me to attire myself in the dress which I would find in my

chamber, the costume of Lucretia Borgia. And I have obeyed. And then to

enter the carriage, which at a quarter past twelve, will await me at

the next corner, and bear me to _the Temple_. I will obey."

She smiled--a smile that disclosed the ivory of her teeth, the ripeness

of her lips--lit up her eyes with new light, and was responded to by

the swell of her proud bosom.

Take care Esther! You wear the dress of Lucretia Borgia, and you are

even more madly beautiful than that accursed child of the Demon-Pope;

but have a care. You are yet spotless and pure. But the blood is warm

in your veins, and perchance there is ambition as well as passion in

the fire which burns in your eyes. Have a care! The future is yet to

come, Esther, and who can tell what it will bring forth for you?

"I will meet Godlike there," she said, and an inexplicable smile

animated her face.

She placed a small poniard in the folds of her sash, and threw a heavy

cloak, to which was attached a hood, over her form. She drew the hood

over her face, and stood ready to depart.

The light was extinguished. She glided from the room, and down the

stairs, and passed unobserved from the silent house. At the corner of

the next street the carriage waited with the driver on the box.

"Who are you?" she said in a low voice.

"The Temple," answered the driver, and descended from the box, and

opened the carriage door.

Esther entered, the door was closed, the carriage whirled away.

"What will be the result of the adventures of this night?" she thought,

and her bosom heaved with mad agitation.

And as she was thus borne to the Temple, there was a woman watching

by the bedside of an old man, in one of the chambers of the Broadway

mansion,--Eleanor watching while her father slept.

Her night-dress hung in loose folds about her noble form, as she arose

and held the dim light nearer to his gray hairs. There was agony

stamped upon his face, even as he slept--an agony which was reflected

in the pallid face and tremulous lips of his daughter.

"He sleeps!" she exclaimed in a low voice: "Little does he fancy that

I know the fearful history which this night fell from his lips. And

this night, before he retired to rest, he clasped me to his bosom,

and said--" she blushed in neck and cheek and brow,--"that it was the

dearest wish of his heart, that I should be united to Randolph."

She kissed him gently on the brow, and crept noiselessly to her own

room, and soon was asleep, the image of Randolph prominent in her

dreams.

Poor Eleanor!

Leaving Randolph, his sister, and those connected with their fate, our

history now turns to other characters.

Let us enter the house of the merchant prince.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE HOUSE OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE.

It was near eleven o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844, when

Evelyn Somers, Sen., sitting in his library by the light of the shaded

candle, was startled by the ringing of the bell.

"The front door-bell!" he ejaculated, looking up from his labors, until

the candle shone full upon his thin features and low forehead. "Can

it be Evelyn? Oh! I forgot. He returned only this evening. One of the

servants, I suppose--been out late--must look to this in the morning."

He resumed his pen, and again, surrounded by title-deeds and mortgages,

bent down to his labors.

So deeply was he absorbed that he did not hear the opening of the front

door, followed by a footstep in the hall. Nor did he hear the stealthy

opening of the door of the library; much less did he see the burly

figure which advanced on tiptoe to his table.

"Be calm!" said a gruff voice, and a hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Hey! What? Who,--who--are--you?" The merchant prince started in his

chair, and beheld a burly form enveloped in a bear-skin overcoat and

full-moon face, spotted with carbuncles.

"Be calm!" said the owner of the face, in a hoarse voice. "There's no

occasion to alarm yourself. These things will happen."

The merchant prince was thoroughly amazed.

Opening his small eyes, half concealed by heavy lids, to their fullest

extent, he cried: "What do you mean? Who are you?--I don't know you?

What--what--"

"I'm Blossom, I am," returned the full-moon face, "_Lay low! Keep

dark!_ I'm Blossom, one of the _secret police_. Lay low!"

"My God! Is Evelyn in another scrape?" ejaculated the merchant prince;

"I will pay for no more of his misdeeds. There's no use of talking

about it. I'll not go his bail, if he rots in the Tombs. I'll--" Mr.

Somers doggedly folded his arms, and sat bolt upright in his chair.

With his contracted features, spare form and formal white cravat, he

looked the very picture of an unrelenting father.

"Come, hoss, there's no use of that."

"Hoss! Do you apply such words to me," indignantly echoed the merchant

prince.

"Be calm," soothingly remarked Blossom. "Lay low. Keep dark. Jist

answer me one question: Has your son Evelyn a _soot_ o' rooms in the

upper part o' this house?"

"What do you ask such a question for?" and Mr. Somers opened his eyes

again. "He has all the rooms on the third floor, in the body of the

mansion--there are four in all."

"Very good. Now, is Evelyn at home?" asked Blossom.

"Don't come so near. The smell of brandy is offensive to me. Faugh!"

"You'll smell brimstone, if you don't take keer!" exclaimed the

indignant Blossom. "To think o' sich ingratitude from an old cock like

you, when I've come to keep that throat o' yourn from bein' cut by

robbers."

"Robbers!" and this time Mr. Somers fairly started from his seat.

"When I've come to purtect your _jugular_,--yes, you needn't

wink,--your _jugular!_ Oh, it was not for nothing that a Roman consul

once remarked that republics is ungrateful."

"Robbers? Robbers! What d'ye mean? Speak--speak--"

Blossom laid his hand upon the merchant's shoulder.

"If you'll promise to keep a secret, and not make a fuss. I'll tell you

all. If you go for raisin' a hellabaloo, I'll walk out and leave your

jugular to take care of itself."

"I promise, I promise," ejaculated the merchant.

"Then, while you are sittin' in that ere identical chair, there's

two crackmen--burglars, you know,--hid up-stairs in your son's room.

They're a-waitin' until you put out the lights, and go to sleep, and

then,--your cash-box and jugulars the word?--Why, I wouldn't insure

your throat for all your fortin."

The merchant prince was seized with a fit of trembling.

"Robbers! in my house! Astounding, a-s-t-o-u-n-d-i-n-g! How did they

get in?"

"By your son's night-key, and the front door. You see I was arter these

crackmen to-night, and found 'em in a garret of the Yaller Mug. You

never patronize the Yaller Mug, do you?"

Mr. Somers nodded "No," with a spasmodic shake of the head.

"Jist afore I pitched into 'em, I listened outside of the garret door,

and overheard their plot to conceal themselves in Evelyn's room, until

you'd all gone to bed, and then commence operations on your cash-box

and jugular. One o' 'em's a convict o' eleven years' standin'. He's

been regularly initiated into all the honors of Auburn and Cherry Hill."

"And you arrested them?"

"Do you see this coverlet about my head? That's what I got for

attemptin' it. They escaped from the garret, by getting upon the roof,

and jumpin' down on a shed. If my calculations are correct, they're

up-stairs jist now, preparin' for their campaign on your cash-box and

jugular."--

"Cash-box! I have no cash-box. My cash is all in bank!"

"Gammon. It won't do. Behind yer seat is yer iron safe,--one o' th'

Salamanders; you're got ten thousand in gold, in _that_."

Mr. Somers changed color.

"They intend to blow up the lock with powder, after they'd fixed your

_jugular_."

Mr. Somers clasped his hands, and shook like a leaf.

"What's to be done, what's to be done!" he cried in perfect agony.

"There's six o' my fellows outside. I've got a special warrant from

the authorities. Now, if you've a key to Evelyn's rooms, we'll just go

up-stairs and search 'em. You can stand outside, while we go in. But no

noise,--no fuss you know."

"But they'll murder you," cried the merchant, "they'll murder me.

They'll,"--

Blossom drew a six-barreled revolver from one pocket, and a slung-shot

from the other.

"This is my _settler_," he elevated his revolver, "and this, my _gentle

persuader_," he brandished the slung-shot.

"Oh!" cried Mr. Somers, "property is no longer respected,--ah! what

times we've fallen in!"

"How many folks have you in the house?"

"The servants sleep in the fourth story, over Evelyn's room. The

housekeeper sleeps under Evelyn's room, and my room and the room of my

private secretary are just above where I am sitting."

"Good. Now take the candle, and come," responded Blossom, "we want you

as a witness."

The merchant prince made many signs of hesitation,--winking his heavy

lids, rubbing his low forehead with both hands, and pressing his

pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger,--but Blossom seized the

candle, and made toward the door.

"You are not going to leave me in the dark?" cried Mr. Somers, bounding

from his chair.

"Not if you follow the light," responded Blossom; "by-the-by, you may

as well bring the keys to Evelyn's room."

With a trembling hand, Mr. Somers lifted a huge bunch of keys from the

table.

"There, open all the rooms on the second and fourth floors," he said,

and followed Blossom into the hall.

There, shoulder to shoulder, stood six stout figures, in glazed caps

and great coats of rough, dark-colored cloth, with a mace or a pistol

protruding from every pocket. They stood as silent as blocks of stone.

"Boys," whispered Blossom, "we'll go up first. You follow and station

yerselves on the second landin', so as to be ready when I whistle."

A murmur of assent was heard, and Blossom, light in hand, led the

merchant prince toward the stairway which led upward from the center

of the hall. At the foot of the stairway, they were confronted by a

servant-maid, who had answered the bell when Blossom first rang: her

red, round cheeks were pale as ashes, and she clung to the railing of

the staircase for support.

"Och, murther!" she ejaculated, as she beheld the red face of Blossom,

and the frightened visage of her master.

Blossom seized her arm with a tight grip.

"Look here, Biddy, do you know how to sleep?" was the inquiry of the

rubicund gentleman.

"Slape?" echoed the girl, with eyes like saucers.

"'Cause if you don't go back into the kitchen, and put yourself into

a sound sleep d'rectly; yourself, your master and me, will all be

murdered in our beds. It 'ud hurt my feelin's, Biddy, to see you with

your throat cut, and sich a nice fat throat as it is!"

Biddy uttered a groan, and shrunk back behind the stairway.

"Now then!" and Blossom led the way up-stairs, followed by the lean,

angular form of the merchant prince, who turned his head over his

shoulder, like a man afraid of ghosts.

They arrived at the small entry at the head of the stairs, on the third

floor; three doors opened into the entry; one on the right, one on the

left, and the third directly in the background, facing the head of the

stairs.

"Hush!" whispered Blossom, "do you hear any noise?"

Advancing on tip-toe, he crouched against the door on the right, and

listened. In an instant he came back to the head of the stairs, where

stood Mr. Somers, shaking in every nerve.

"It's a snore," said Blossom, "jist go and listen, and see if it's your

son's snore."

It required much persuasion to induce the merchant prince to take the

step.

"Where are your men?"

Blossom pointed over the merchant's shoulder, to the landing beneath.

There, in the gloom, stood the six figures, shoulder to shoulder, and

as motionless as stone.

"Now will you go?"

Mr. Somers advanced, and placed his head against the door on the right.

After a brief pause, he returned to the head of the stairs where

Blossom stood. "It is not my son's _snore_," he said, "that is, if I am

any judge of _snores_."

Blossom took the light and the keys, and advanced to the door on the

right, which he gently tried to open, but found it locked. Making a

gesture of caution to the merchant prince, he selected the key of the

door from the bunch, softly inserted it, and as softly turned it in

the lock. The door opened with a sound. Then stepping on tip-toe, he

crossed the threshold, taking the light with him.

Mr. Somers, left alone in the dark, felt his heart march to his throat.

"I shall be murdered,--I know I shall," he muttered, when the light

shone on his frightened face again. Blossom stood in the doorway,

beckoning to him.

Somers advanced and crossed the threshold.

"Look there," whispered Blossom "now d'ye believe me?"

A huge man, dressed in the jacket and trowsers of a convict, was

sleeping on the bed, his head thrown back, his mouth wide open, and

one arm hanging over the bedside. His chest heaved with long, deep

respirations, and his nostrils emitted a snore of frightful depth.

At this confirmation of the truth of Blossom's statement, Mr. Somers'

face became as white as his cravat.

"Look _there_!" whispered Blossom, pointing to a pistol which lay upon

the carpet, almost within reach of the brawny hand which hung over the

bed-side.

"Good God! ejaculated Somers.

"Now look _there_!" Blossom pointed to the brandy bottle on the table,

and held the light near it. "_Empty!_ d'ye see?"

Then Blossom drew from his capacious pocket, certain pieces of rope,

each of which was attached to the middle of a piece of hickory, as

hard as iron.

"Hold the light," and like a nurse attending to a sleeping babe, the

ingenious Blossom gently attached one of the aforesaid pieces of rope

to the ankles of the sleeper, in such a manner, that the two pieces of

hickory,--one at either end of the rope,--formed a knot, which a giant

would have found it hard to break. As the ankles rested side by side,

this feat was not so difficult.

"Now for the wrists," and Blossom quietly regarded the position of the

sleeper's hands. One was doubled on his huge chest, the other hung over

the bedside. To straighten one arm and lift the other,--to do this

gently and without awaking the sleeper,--to tie both wrists together

as he had tied the ankles,--this was a difficult task, but Blossom

accomplished it. Once the convict moved. "_Don't give it up so easy!_"

he muttered and snored again.

Blossom surveyed him with great satisfaction.--"There's muscle, and

bone, and fists,--did you ever see sich fists!"

"A perfect brute!" ejaculated Somers.

"Now you stay here, while I go into the next room, and hunt for the

tother one."

This room, it will be remembered, communicated with an adjoining

apartment by folding-doors. Blossom took the candle and listened; all

was silent beyond the folding-doors. He carefully opened these doors,

and light in hand, went into the next apartment. A belt of light

came through the aperture, and fell upon the tall, spare form of the

merchant prince, who, standing in the center of the _first_ apartment

gazed through the aperture just mentioned, into the _second_ room. All

the movements of Blossom were open to his gaze.

He saw him approach a bed, whose ruffled coverlet indicated that a man

was sleeping there. He saw him bend over this bed, but the burly form

of the police-officer hid the face of the sleeper from the sight of the

merchant prince. He saw him lift the coverlet, and stand for a moment,

as if gazing upon the sleeping man, and then saw him start abruptly

from the bed, and turn his step toward the _first_ room.

"What's the matter with _you_," cried the merchant prince, "are _you_

frightened?"

Truth to tell, the full-moon face of Blossom, spotted with carbuncles,

had somewhat changed its color.

"Can't you speak? It's Evelyn who's sleeping yonder,--isn't it? Hadn't

you better wake him quietly?"

"Ah my feller," and the broken voice of Blossom, showed that he was

_human_ after all--all that he had seen in his lifetime,--"Ah my

feller, he'll never wake again."

Somers uttered a cry, seized the light and strode madly into the next

room, and turned the bed where the sleeper laid. The fallen jaw, the

fixed eyeballs, the hand upon the chest, stained with the blood which

flowed from the wound near the heart--he saw it all, and uttered a

horrible cry, and fell like a dead man upon the floor.

Blossom seized the light from his hand as he fell, and turning back

into the first room blew his whistle. The room was presently occupied

by the six assistants.

"There's been murder done here to-night," he said, gruffly: "Potts,

examine that pistol near the bed. Unloaded, is it? Gentlemen, take a

look at the prisoner and then follow me."

He led the way into the second room, and they all beheld the dead body

of Evelyn Somers.

"Two of you carry the old man down stairs and try and rewive him;" two

of the assistants lifted the insensible form of the merchant prince,

and bore it from the room. "Now, gentlemen, we'll wake the prisoner."

He approached the sleeping convict, followed by four of the policemen,

whose faces manifested unmingled horror. He struck the sleeping man on

the shoulder,--"Wake up Gallus. Wake up Gallus, I say!"

After another blow, Ninety-One unclosed his eyes, and looked around

with a vague and stupefied stare. It was not until he sat up in bed,

that he realized the fact, that his wrists and ankles were pinioned.

His gaze wandered from the face of Blossom to the countenances of the

other police-officers, and last of all, rested upon his corded hands.

"My luck," he said, quietly,--"curse you, you needn't awakened a fellow

in his sleep. Why couldn't you have waited till mornin'?"

And he sank back on the bed again. Blossom seized a pitcher filled

with water, which stood upon a table, and dashed the contents in the

convict's face.

Thoroughly awake, and thoroughly enraged, Ninety-One started up in the

bed, and gave utterance to a volley of curses.

Blossom made a sign with his hand; the four policemen seized the

convict and bore him into the second room, while Blossom held the light

over the dead man's livid face and bloody chest.

"Do you see that bullet-hole?" said Blossom; "the pistol was found

a-side of your bed, near your hand. Gallus, you'll have to dance on

nothin', I'm werry much afeard you will. But it 'ill take a strong rope

to hang you."

"What!" shouted Ninety-One, "you don't mean to say,--" he cast a

horrified look at the dead man, and then, like a flash of lightning,

the whole matter became as plain as day to him. "Oh, Thirty-One,"

he groaned between his set-teeth, "this is your dodge,--is it? Oh,

Thirty-One, this is another little item in our long account."

"What do you say?" asked one of the policemen. Ninety-One relapsed into

a dogged silence. They could not force another word from him. Carrying

him back into the first room, they laid him on the bed, and secured

his ankles and wrists with additional cords. Meanwhile, they could

peruse at their leisure, that face, whose deep jaw, solid chin, and

massive throat, covered with a stiff beard, manifested at once, immense

muscular power, and an indomitable will. The eyes of the convict,

overhung by his bushy brows, the cheeks disfigured by a hideous scar,

the square forehead, with the protuberance in the center, appearing

amid masses of gray hair,--all these details, were observed by the

spectators, as they added new cords to the ankles and the wrists of

Ninety-One.

His chest shook with a burst of laughter, "Don't give it up so easy!"

he cried, "I'll be even with you yet, Thirty-One."

"S'arch all the apartments,--we must find his comrade," exclaimed

Blossom,--"a pale-faced young devil, whom I seen with him, last night,

in the cars."

Ninety-One started, even as he lay pinioned upon the bed.--"Oh,

Thirty-One," he groaned, "and you must bring the boy in it, too, must

you? Just add another figure to our account."

The four rooms were thoroughly searched, but the comrade was not found.

"Come, boys," said Blossom, "we'll go down-stairs and talk this matter

over. Gallus," directing his conversation to Ninety-One, "we'll see you

again, presently."

Ninety-One saw them cross the threshold, and heard the key turn in the

lock. He was alone in the darkness, and with the dead.

As Blossom, followed by the policemen, passed down stairs, he was

confronted on the second landing by the affrighted servants,--some of

them but thinly clad,--who assailed him with questions. Instead of

answering these multiplied queries, Blossom addressed his conversation

to a portly dame of some forty years, who appeared in her night-dress

and with an enormous night-cap.

"The housekeeper, I believe, Ma'am?"

"Yes, sir,--Mrs. Tompkins," replied the dame, "Oh, do tell me, what

does this all mean?"

"How's the old gentleman?" asked Blossom.

"In his room. He's reviving. Mr. Van Huyden, his private secretary is

with him. But do tell us the truth of this affair--what--what, does it

all mean?"

"Madam, it means murder and blood and an old convict. Excuse me, I must

go--down-stairs."

While the house rang with the exclamations of his affrighted listeners,

Blossom passed down stairs, and, with his assistants, entered the

Library.

"The question afore the house, gentlemen, is as follows,"--and Blossom

sank into the chair of the merchant prince--"Shill we keep the prisoner

up-stairs all night, or shill we take him to the Tombs?"

Various opinions were given by the policemen, and the debate assumed

quite an animated form, Blossom, in all the dignity of his bear-skin

coat and carbuncled visage, presiding as moderator.

"Address the cheer," he mildly exclaimed, as the debate grew warm.

"Allow me to remark, gentlemen, that Stuffletz, there, is very

sensible. Stuff., you think as the coroner's inquest will be held

up-stairs by arly daylight to-morrow mornin' it 'ud be better to keep

the prisoner there so as to confront him with the body? That's your

opinion, Stuff. Well, I can't speak for you, gentlemen, as I don't

b'long to the reg'lar police,--(I'm only an _extra_, you know!)--but

it seems to me, Stuff. is right. Therefore, let the prisoner stay

up-stairs all night; the room is safe, and I'll watch him mesself.

Beside, you don't think he's a-goin' to tumble himself out of a third

story winder, or vanish in a puff o' brimstone, as the devil does in

the new play at the Bowery--do you?"

There was no one to gainsay the strong position thus assumed by

Poke-Berry Blossom, Esq.

"And then I kin have a little private chat with him, in regard to the

$71,000,--I guess I can," he muttered to himself.

"What's the occasion of this confusion?" said a bland voice; and, clad

in his elegant white coat, with his cloak drooping from his right

shoulder, Colonel Tarleton advanced from the doorway to the light.

"Passing by I saw Mr. Somers' door open, and hear an uproar,--what is

the matter, gentlemen? My old friend, Mr. Somers, is not ill, I hope?"

"Evelyn, his son, has been shot," bluntly responded Blossom--"by an

old convict, who had hid himself in the third story, with the idea o'

attackin' old Somers' cash-box and jugular."

Colonel Tarleton, evidently shocked, raised his hand to his forehead

and staggered to a chair.

"Evelyn shot!" he gasped, after a long pause.--"Surely you dream. The

particulars, the particulars--"

Blossom recapitulated the particulars of the case, according to the

best of his knowledge.

"It is too horrible, too horrible," cried Tarleton, and his extreme

agitation was perceptible to the policemen. "My young friend Evelyn

murdered! Ah!--" he started from the chair, and fell back again with

his head in his hands.

"But we've got the old rag'muffin," cried Blossom, "safe and tight;

third story, back room."

Tarleton started from the chair and approached Blossom,--his pale face

stamped with hatred and revenge.

"Mr. Blossom," he said, and snatched the revolver from the pocket of

the rubicund gentleman. "Hah! it's loaded in six barrels! Murdered

Evelyn--in the back room you say--I'll have the scoundrel's life!"

He snatched the candle from the table, and rushed to the door. The

policemen did not recover from their surprise, until they heard his

steps on the stairs.

"After him, after him,--there'll be mischief," shouted Blossom, and

he rushed after Tarleton, followed by the six policemen. Tarleton's

shouts of vengeance resounded through the house, and once more drew the

servants, both men and women, to the landing-place at the head of the

stairs. That figure attracted every eye--a man attired in a white coat,

his face wild, his hair streaming behind him, a loaded pistol in one

hand and a light in the other.

"Ketch his coat-tails," shouted Blossom, and, followed by policemen and

servant-maids, he rushed up the second stairway.

He found Tarleton in the act of forcing the door on the _right_, which

led into the room where Ninety-One was imprisoned.

"It is locked! Damnation!" shouted Tarleton, roaring like a madman.

"Will no one give me the key?"

"I'll tell you what I'll give you," was the remark of Blossom. "I'll

give you _one_ under yer ear, if you don't keep quiet,--"

But his threat came too late. Tarleton stepped back and then plunged

madly against the door. It yielded with a crash. Then, with Blossom

and the crowd at his heels, he rushed into the room, brandishing the

pistol, as the light which he held fell upon his convulsed features,--

"Where is the wretch?--show him to me! Where is the murderer of poor

Evelyn?"

Blossom involuntarily turned his eyes toward the bed. It was empty.

Ninety-One was not there. His gaze traversed the room: a door, looking

like the doorway of a closet, stood wide open opposite the bed. It

required but a moment to ascertain that the door opened upon a stairway.

"By ----!" shouted Blossom, "he's gone! His comrade has been concealed

somewhere, and has cut him loose."

"Gone!" echoed police-officers and servants.

"Gone!" ejaculated Tarleton, and fell back into a chair, and his head

sunk upon his breast.

There he remained muttering and moaning, while the four apartments on

the third floor were searched in every corner by Blossom and his gang.

The search was vain.

"He can't be got far," cried Blossom. "Some o' you go down into the

yard, and I'll s'arch this staircase."

Thus speaking, he took the light and disappeared through the open

doorway of the staircase, while the other police-officers hastily

descended the main stairway.

Tarleton remained at least five minutes in the darkness, while shouts

were heard in the yard behind the mansion. Then, emerging from the

room, he descended to the second floor, where he was confronted by the

housekeeper, who was struck with pity at the sight of his haggard face.

"I am weak--I am faint; allow me to lean upon your arm," said Tarleton,

and supported his weight upon the fat arm of the good lady.--"Support

me to the bedchamber of my dear friend Somers,--the father of poor

murdered Evelyn."

"This way, sir," said the housekeeper, kindly, "he's in there, with his

private secretary--"

"With his _private secretary_, did you say?" faintly exclaimed

Tarleton. "Close the door after me, good madam, I wish to talk with the

dear old man."

He entered the bedchamber, leaving the housekeeper at the door.

CHAPTER XII.

"SHOW ME THE WAY."

A single lamp stood on a table, near a bed which was surmounted by

a canopy of silken curtains. The room was spacious and elegant;

chairs, carpet, the marble mantle, elaborately carved, and the ceiling

adorned with an elaborate painting,--all served to show that the

merchant prince slept in a "place of state." Every detail of that

richly-furnished apartment, said "Gold!" as plainly as though a voice

was speaking it all the while.

His lean form, attired in every-day apparel, was stretched upon the

bed, and through the aperture in the curtains, the lamp-light fell

upon one side of his face. He appeared to be sleeping. His arms lay

listlessly by his side, and his head was thrown back upon the pillow.

His breathing was audible in the most distant corner of the chamber.

"Gulian," said Tarleton, who seemed to recover his usual strength and

spirit, as soon as he entered the room, "Where are you, my dear?"

The slight form of the private secretary advanced from among the

curtains at the foot of the bed. His face, almost feminine in its

expression, appeared in the light, with tears glistening on the cheeks.

It was a beautiful face, illumined by large, clear eyes, and framed in

the wavy hair, which flowed in rich masses to his shoulders. At sight

of the elegant Colonel, the blue eyes of the boy shone with a look of

terror. He started back, folding his hands over the frock coat, which

enveloped his boyish shape.

"Ah, my God,--you here!" was his exclamation, "when will you cease to

persecute me?"

The Colonel smiled, patted his elegant whiskers, and drawing nearer to

the boy, who seemed to _cringe_ away from his touch, he said in his

blandest tone,--

"Persecute you! Well, that is clever!--Talk of gratitude again in this

world! I took you when you were a miserable foundling, a wretched

little baby, without father, mother, or name. I placed you in the quiet

of a country town, where you received an elegant education. I gave you

a name,--a fancy name, I admit--the name which you now wear--and when I

visited you, once or twice a year, you called me by the name of father.

How I gained money to support you these nineteen or twenty years, and

to adorn that fine intellect of yours, with a finished education,--why,

you don't know, and I scarcely can tell, myself. But after these years

of protection and support, I appeared at your home in the country, and

asked a simple favor at your hands. Ay, child, the man you delighted

to call father asked in return for all that he had done for you, a

favor--only one favor--and that of the simplest character. Where was

your gratitude? You refused me; you fled from your home in the country,

and I lost sight of you until to-night, when I find my lost lamb, in

the employment of the rich merchant. His private secretary, forsooth!"

"Hush," exclaimed Gulian, with a deprecatory gesture, "You will wake

Mr. Somers. He has had one convulsion already, and it may prove fatal.

I have sent for a doctor,--oh, why does he not come?"

"You shall not avoid me in that way, my young friend," said Tarleton.

He laid his hand on the arm of the boy, and bent his face so near to

him that the latter felt the Colonel's breath upon his forehead. "The

money which I bestowed upon your education, I obtained by what the

world calls _felony_. For you--for you--" his voice sunk to a deeper

tone, and his eyes flashed with anger; "for you I spent some years

in that delightful retreat, which is known to vulgar ears by the

word,--PENITENTIARY!"

"God help me," cried the boy, affrighted by the expression which

stamped the Colonel's face.

"_Penitentiary_ or _jail_, call it what you will, I spent some years

there for your sake. And do you wish to evade me now when, I tell you

that I reared you but for one object, and that object dearer to me

than life? You ran away from my guardianship; you attempt to conceal

yourself from me; you attempt to foil the hope for which I have

suffered the tortures of the damned these twenty years? Come, my boy,

you'll think better of it."

The smile of the Colonel was altogether fiendish. The boy sank on his

knees, and raised to the Colonel's gaze that beautiful face stamped

with terror, and bathed in tears.

"Oh, pardon me--forgive me!" he cried, "Do not kill me--"

"Kill you! Pshaw!"

"Let me live an obscure life, away from your observation; let me be

humble, poor and unknown; as you value the hope of salvation, do not--I

beseech you on my knees--do not ask me to comply with your request!"

"If you don't get up, I may be tempted to strike you," was the

brutal remark of the Colonel. "Pitiful wretch! Hark ye," he bent

his head,--"the robber who this night murdered Evelyn Somers,

gained admittance to this house by means of a night-key. He had

an _accomplice_ in the house, who supplied him with the key. That

accomplice, (let us suppose a case) was yourself--"

"Me!" cried the boy, in utter horror.

"I can _obtain_ evidence of the fact," continued the Colonel, and

paused. "You had better think twice before you enter the lists with me

and attempt to thwart my will."

The boy, thus kneeling, did not reply, but buried his face in his

hands, and his flowing hair hid those hands with its luxurious waves.

He shook in every nerve with agony. He sobbed aloud.

"Will you be quiet?" the Colonel seized him roughly by the shoulder,

"or shall I throttle you?"

"Yes, kill me, _fiend_, kill me, oh! kill me with one blow:" the boy

raised his face, and pronounced these words, his eyes flashing with

hatred, as he uttered the word "_fiend_." There was something startling

in the look of mortal hatred which had so suddenly fixed itself upon

that beautiful face. Even the Colonel was startled.

"Nay, nay, my child," he said in a soothing tone, "get up, get up,

that's a dear child--I meant no harm--"

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a hollow voice.

"You must pay, sir. That's my way.--You must pay or you must go."

The business-like nature, the every-day character of these words, was

in painful contrast with the hollow accent which accompanied their

utterance. At the sound the boy sprang to his feet, and the Colonel

started as though a pistol had exploded at his ear.

The merchant prince had risen into a sitting posture. His thin

features, low, broad forehead, wide mouth, with thin lips and pointed

chin, were thrown strongly into view by the white cravat which

encircled his throat. Those features were bathed in moisture. The small

eyes, at other times half concealed by heavy lids, were now expanded

in a singular stare,--a stare which made the blood of the Colonel grow

cold in his veins.

"God bless us! What's the matter with you, good Mr. Somers?" he

ejaculated.

But the rich man did not heed him.

"I wouldn't give a snap for your Reading Railroad--bad stock--bad

stock--it must burst. It _will_ burst, I say. Pay, pay, pay, or go!

That's the only way to do business. D'ye suppose I'm an ass? The note

_can't_ lie over. If you don't meet it, it shall be protested."

As he uttered these incoherent words, his expanding eyes still fixed,

he inserted his tremulous hand in his waist-coat pocket, and took from

thence a GOLDEN EAGLE, which he brought near his eyes, gazing at it

long and eagerly.

"He's delirious," ejaculated Tarleton, "why don't you go for a doctor?"

"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Gulian, rushing to the door, "why doesn't

the doctor come?--"

But at the door he was confronted by the buxom housekeeper, who

whispered, "Our doctor is out of town, but one of the servants has

found another one: he's writing down-stairs."

"Quick! Quick! Bring him at once;" and Gulian, in his flight, pushed

the housekeeper out of the room.

Mr. Somers still remained in a sitting posture, his eye fixed upon the

golden eagle.

"Tell Jenks to foreclose," he muttered, "I've nothing to do with the

man's wife and children. It isn't in the way of business. The mortgage

isn't paid, and we must sell--sell--sell,--sell," he repeated until his

voice died away in a murmur.

The doctor entered the room. "Where is our patient?" he said, as he

advanced to the bedside. He was a man somewhat advanced in years, with

bent figure and stooping shoulders. He was clad in an old-fashioned

surtout, with nine or ten heavy capes hanging about his shoulders; and,

as if to protect him from the cold, a bright-red kerchief was tied

about his neck and the lower part of his face. He wore a black fur hat,

with an ample brim, which effectually shaded his features.

The Colonel started at the sight of this singular figure. "Our friend

of the blue capes, as I'm alive!" he muttered half aloud.

The doctor advanced to the bedside.--"You will excuse me for retaining

my hat and this kerchief about my neck," he said in his mild voice, "I

am suffering from a severe cold." He then directed his attention to the

sick man, while Gulian and Tarleton watched his movements, with evident

interest.

The doctor did not touch the merchant; he stood by the bedside, gazing

upon him silently.

"What's the matter with our friend?" whispered Tarleton.

The doctor did not answer. He remained motionless by the bedside,

surveying the quivering features and fixed eyes of the afflicted man.

"This person," exclaimed the doctor, after a long pause, "is not

suffering from a physical complaint. His mind is afflicted. From the

talk of the servants in the hall, I learned that he has this night lost

his only son, by the hands of a murderer. The shock has been too great

for him. My young friend," he addressed Gulian, who stood at his back,

"it were as well to send for a clergyman."

Gulian hurried to the door, and whispered to the housekeeper. Returning

to the bedside, he found the doctor seated in a chair, with a watch in

his hand, in full view of the delirious man. The Colonel, grasping the

bed-curtain, stood behind him, in an attitude of profound thought, yet

with a faint smile upon his lips.

As for the merchant prince, seated bolt upright in the bed, he clutched

the golden eagle, (which seemed to have _magnetized_ his gaze), and

babbled in his delirium--

"_You_ an heir of Trinity Church?" he said, with a mocking smile upon

his thin lips, "_you_ one of the descendants of Anreke Jans Bogardus?

Pooh! Pooh! The Church is firm,--_firm_. She defies you. Aaron Burr

tried that game, he! he! and found it best to quit,--to quit--to quit.

What Trinity Church has got, she will hold,--hold--hold. She buys,--she

sells--she sells--she buys--a great business man is Trinity Church! And

with your two hundred beggarly heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus, you will

go to law about her title. Pooh!"

"He is going fast," whispered the Doctor, "his mind is killing him.

Where are his relatives?"

His relatives! Sad, sad word! His wife had been dead many years, and

her relatives were at a distance; perchance in a foreign land. His

_nearest_ relative was a corpse, up-stairs, with a pistol wound through

his heart.

Evelyn Somers, Sen., was one of the richest men in New York, and

yet there was not a single relative to stand by his dying-bed. The

death-sweat on his fevered brow, the whiteness of death on his

quivering lips, the fire of the grave in his expanding eyes, Evelyn

Somers, the merchant prince, had neither wife nor child nor relative to

stand by him in his last hour. The poor boy who wept by the bed-side

was, perchance, his only friend.

"Cornelius Berman, the artist, (who died, I believe, some years ago,)

was his only relative in New York: his only son out of view." This was

the answer of Colonel Tarleton, to the question of the Doctor.

And the dying man, still sitting bolt upright, one hand on his knee,

and the other grasping the golden coin, still babbled in his delirium

in the hollow tone of death. He talked of everything. He bought and

sold, received rent and distressed tenants, paid notes and protested

them, made imaginary sums by the sale of stocks, and achieved imaginary

triumphs by the purchase of profitable tracts of land,--it was a

frightful scene.

The Doctor shuddered, and as he looked at his watch, muttered a word of

prayer.

The Colonel turned his face away, but was forced by an involuntary

impulse, to turn again and gaze upon that livid countenance.

The boy Gulian--in the shadows of the room--sunk on his knees and

uttered a prayer, broken by sobs.

At length the dying man seemed to recover a portion of his

consciousness. Turning his gaze from the golden coin which he still

clutched in his fingers, he said in a voice which, in some measure,

resembled his every-day tone,--

"Send for a minister, a minister, quick! I am very weak."

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when a soft voice exclaimed,

"I am here, my dear friend Somers, I trust that this is not serious. A

sad, sad affliction, you have encountered to-night. But you must cheer

up, you must, indeed."

The minister had entered the room unperceived, and now stood by the

bed-side.

"Herman Barnhurst!" ejaculated Colonel Tarleton.

The tall, slender figure of the clergyman, dressed in deep black,

was disclosed to the gaze of the dying man, who gazed intently at

his _blonde_ face, effeminate in its excessive fairness, and then

exclaimed, reaching his hand,--

"Come, I am going. I want you to show me the way!"

"Really, my dear friend," began Barnhurst, passing his hand over his

hair, which, straight and brown and of silken softness, fell smoothly

behind his ears, "you must bear up. This is not so serious as you

imagine."

"I tell you I am going. I have often heard you preach,--once or twice

in Trinity--I rather liked you--and now I want you to show me the way!

Do you see there?" he extended his trembling hand, "there's the way I'm

going. It's all dark. You're a minister of my church too; I want you to

_show me the way_?"

There was a terrible emphasis in the accent,--a terrible entreaty in

the look of the dying man.

The Rev. Herman Barnhurst sank back in a chair, much affected.

"Has he made his will?" he whispered to the Doctor, "so much property

and no heirs: he could do so much good with it. Had not you better send

for a lawyer?"

The Doctor regarded, for a moment, the fair complexion, curved nose,

warm, full lips, and rounded chin of the young minister; and then

answered, in a low voice,

"You are a minister. It is your duty not altogether to preach eloquent

sermons, and show a pair of delicate hands from the summit of a marble

pulpit. It is your duty to administer comfort by the dying-bed, where

humbug is stripped of its mark, and death is 'the only reality'. Do

your duty, sir. Save this man's soul."

"Yes, save my soul," cried Somers, who heard the last words of the

Doctor, "I don't want the offices of the church; I don't want prayers.

I want comfort, comfort; _now_." He paused, and then reaching forth

his hand, said in a low voice, half broken by a burst of horrible

laughter, "There's the way I've got to travel. Now tell me, minister,

do you really believe that there is anything there? When we die, we

die, don't we? Sleep and rot, rot and sleep, don't we?"

Herman, who was an Atheist at heart, though he had never confessed

the truth even to himself--Herman, who was a minister for the sake

of a large salary, fine carriage, and splendid house--Herman, who

was, in fact, an intellectual voluptuary, devoting life and soul to

the gratification of one appetite, which had, with him, become a

monomania--Herman, now, for the first moment in his life, was conscious

of a something _beyond_ the grave; conscious that this religion of

Christ, the Master, which he used as a trade, was something more than a

trade; was a fact, a reality, at once a hope and a judgment.

And the Rev. Herman Barnhurst felt one throe of remorse, and shuddered.

Vailing his fair face in his delicate hands, he gave himself up to one

moment of terrible reflection.

"He is failing fast," whispered the Doctor; "you had better say a word

of hope to him."

"Yes, the camel is going through the eye of the needle," cried

Somers, with a burst of shrill laughter. "Minister, did you ever see

a camel go through the eye of a needle? Oh! you fellows preach such

soft and velvety sermons to us,--but you never say a word about the

camel--never a word about the camel. You see us buy and sell,--you see

us hard landlords, careful business men,--you see us making money day

after day, and year after year, at the cost of human life and human

blood,--and you never say a word about the camel. Never! never! Why we

_keep_ such fellows as you, for our use: for every thousand that we

make in _trade_, we give you a good discount, in the way of salary, and

so as we go along, we keep a _debit_ and _credit_ account with what you

call Providence. Now rub out my sins, will you? I've paid you for it, I

believe!"

"Poor friend! He is delirious!" ejaculated Herman Barnhurst.

The boy Gulian, (unperceived by the doctor,) brought a golden-clasped

Bible, and laid it on the minister's knees. Then looking with a shudder

at the livid face of the merchant prince, he shrank back into the

shadows, first whispering to the minister--"Read to him from this

book."

Somers, with his glassy eye, caught a glimpse of the book, as in its

splendid binding, it rested on the minister's knees--

"Pooh! pooh! you needn't read. Because if _that_ book is true, why then

I've made a bad _investment_ of my life. I never deceived myself. I

always looked upon this thing you call religion as a branch of trade--a

cloak--a trap. But now I want you to tell me one thing, (and I've paid

enough money to have a decent answer): Do you really believe that there

is _anything_ after this life? Speak, minister! Don't we go to sleep

and rot,--and isn't that all?"

Herman did not answer.

But the voice of the boy Gulian, who was kneeling in the shadows of the

death-chamber, broke through the stillness--

"There is something beyond the grave. There is a God! There is a heaven

and a hell. There is a hope for the repentant, and there is a judgment

for the impenitent." There was something almost supernatural in the

tones of the boy's voice, breaking so slowly and distinctly upon the

profound stillness.

The spectators started at the sound; and as for the dying man, he

picked at his clothing and at the coverlet with his long fingers, now

chilling fast with the cold of death--and muttered incoherent sounds,

without sense or meaning of any kind.

"His face has a horrible look!" ejaculated the Colonel; who was half

hidden among the curtains of the bed.

"He is going fast," said the Doctor, looking at his watch. "In five

minutes all will be over,--"

"And you said, I believe, that he had not made his will?"

It was Herman who spoke. The sensation of remorse had been succeeded

by his accustomed tone of feeling. His face was impressed with the

profound selfishness which impelled his words. "He had better make his

will. Without heirs, he can leave his fortune to the church,--"

"For shame! for shame!" cried the Doctor.

"A little too greedy, my good friend," the Colonel, at his back,

remarked. "Allow me to remark, that your conduct manifests too much of

the Levite, and too little of the gentleman."

Herman bit his lip, and was silent

After this, there was no word spoken for a long time.

The spectators watched in silence the struggles of the dying man.

How he died!--I shudder but to write it; and would not write it, were

I not convinced that _atheism in the church_ is the grand cause of one

half of the crimes and evils that afflict the world.

The death-bed of the ATHEIST church-member, with the ATHEIST minister

sitting by the bed, was a horrible scene.

I see that picture, now:--

A vast room, furnished with all the incidents of wealth, lofty ceiling,

walls adorned with pictures, and carpet that was woven in human blood.

A single lamp on the table near the bed, breaks the gloom. The curtains

of that bed are of satin, the pillow is of down, the coverlet is

spotless as the snow; and there a long slender frame, and a face with

the seal of sixty years of life upon it, attract the gaze of silent

spectators.

The doctor--his face shaded by the wide rim of his hat, sits by the

bed, watch in hand.

Behind him appears the handsome face of Colonel Tarleton--the man of

the world, whose form is shrouded in the curtains.

A little apart, kneels the boy, Gulian, whose beautiful face is stamped

with awe and bathed in tears.

And near the head of the bed, seated on a chair, which touches the

pillow upon which rests the head of the dying--behold the tall form and

aquiline face of the minister, who listens to the moans of death, and

subdues his conscience into an expression of calm serenity.

The dying man is seized with a spasm, which throws his limbs into

horrible contortions. He writhes, and struggles, with hands and feet,

as though wrestling with a murderer: he utters horrible cries. At

length, raising himself in a sitting posture, he projects his livid

face into the light; he reaches forth his arm, and grasps the minister

by the wrist,--the minister utters an involuntary cry of pain,--for

that grasp is like the pressure of an iron vice.

"Not a word about the camel,--hey, minister?"

That was the last word of Evelyn Somers, Sen., the merchant prince.

There, projecting from the bed-curtains his livid face,--there, with

features distorted and eyes rolling, the last glance upon the evidences

of wealth, which filled the chamber,--there, even as he clasped the

minister by the wrist, he gasped his last breath, and was a dead man.

It was with an effort that Herman Barnhurst disengaged his wrist from

the gripe of the dead man's hand. As he tore the hand away, a golden

eagle fell from it, and sparkled in the light, as it fell. The rich man

couldn't take it with him, to the place where he was going,--not even

one piece of gold.

The Rev. Herman Barnhurst rose and left the room without once looking

back.

The doctor, also, rose and straightened the dead man's limbs, and

closed his eyes. This done, he drew his broad-brimmed hat over his

brow, and left the room without a word--yes, he spoke four words, as he

left the place: "One out of seven!" he said.

The Colonel emerged from the curtains; he was ashy pale, and he

tottered as he walked. This time his agitation was not a sham. Once he

looked back upon the dead man's face, and then directed his steps to

the door.

"Remember, Gulian," he whispered as he passed the kneeling boy:

"to-morrow I will see you."

Gulian, still on his knees in the center of the apartment, prayed God

to be merciful to the dead,--to the dead son, whose corpse lay in the

room above, and to the dead father, whose body was stretched before his

eyes.

Tarleton paused for a moment on the threshold, with his hand upon the

knob of the door--

"If Cornelius Berman were alive, he would inherit this immense estate!"

muttered the Colonel. "As it is, here is a palace with two dead bodies

in it, and no heir to inherit the wealth of the corpse which only half

an hour ago was the owner of half a million dollars. But it is no time

to meditate. There's work for me at THE TEMPLE."

Turning from that stately mansion, in which father and son lay dead, we

will follow the steps of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE REVEREND VOLUPTUARIES.

As the REV. HERMAN BARNHURST passed from the hall-door of the palace of

the merchant prince, and descended the marble steps, his thoughts were

by no means of a pleasant character. The image of Alice, for the moment

forgotten, the thoughts of Herman were occupied with the scene which he

had just witnessed,--the hopeless death-bed of the merchant prince.

"The fool!" muttered Herman, drawing his cloak around him, and pulling

his hat over his brows, "The miserable fool! To die without making a

will, when he has no heirs and the church has done so much for him.

Why (in his own phrase) it has been _capital_ to him, in the way of

reputation; he has grown rich by that reputation; and now he dies,

leaving the church and her ministers,--not a single copper, not a

single copper."

It was too early for Herman to return to his home,--so he

thought,--therefore, he directed his steps toward Broadway, resolving,

in spite of the late hour of the night, to pay a visit to one of his

most intimate friends.

But, as he left the palace of the merchant prince, a MAN wrapped also

in a cloak, and with a cap over his eyes, rose from the shadows behind

the marble steps, and walked with an almost noiseless pace in the

footsteps of the young clergyman.

This man had seen Herman enter the house of the merchant prince.

Standing himself in the darkness behind the steps, he had waited

patiently until Herman again appeared. In fact, he had followed the

steps of the clergyman for at least three hours previous to the moment

when he came to the residence of Evelyn Somers, Sr.; followed him from

street to street, from house to house, walking fast or slow, as Herman

quickened or moderated his pace; stopping when Herman stopped; and

thus, for three long hours, he had dogged the steps of the clergyman

with a patience and perseverance, that must certainly have been the

result of some powerful motive.

And now, as the Rev. Herman Barnhurst left the house where the merchant

prince lay dead, the MAN in cap and cloak, quietly resumed his march,

like a veteran at the tap of the drum.

At the moment when Herman reached a dark point of the street near

Broadway, the MAN stole noiselessly to his side and tapped him on the

shoulder.

Herman turned with an ejaculation,--half fear, half wonder. The street

was dark and deserted; the lights of Broadway shone two hundred yards

ahead. Herman, at a glance, saw that himself and the MAN were the only

persons visible.

"It's a thief," he thought,--and then, said aloud, in his sweetest

voice: "What do you want, my friend?"

"_The twenty-fifth of December is near,_" said the MAN, in a slow and

significant voice: "I have important information to communicate to you,

in relation to the _Van Huyden estate_."

Herman was, of course, interested in the great estate, as one of

the SEVEN; but he had a deeper interest in it, than the reader,--at

present, can imagine. The words of the MAN, therefore, agitated him

deeply.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"That I will tell you, when you have taken me to a place, where we can

converse freely together."

Herman hesitated.

"Well, as you will," said the MAN--"It concerns you as much as it does

me. You are afraid to grant me an interview. Good night--"

Thus speaking, he carelessly turned away.

Now Herman was afraid of the MAN, but there were other Men of whom he

was more afraid. So balancing one fear against another, he came to this

conclusion, that the MAN might communicate something, which would save

him from the _other Men_, and so he called the stranger back.

"Why this concealment?" he asked.

"You will confess, after we have talked together, that I have good

reasons for this concealment," was the answer of the MAN.

"Come, then, with me," said Herman, "I will not take you to my own

rooms, but I will take you to the rooms of a friend. He is out of town

and we can converse at our ease."

He led the way toward the room of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, whom the profane

sometimes called Bulgin_e_, which, as the learned know, is good

Ethiopian for Steam Engine. This seemed to imply that the Rev. Dr. was

a perfect Locomotive in his way.

"My friend Bulgin," said Herman, as they arrived in front of a massive

four story building, on a cross street, not more than a quarter of a

mile from the head of Broadway, "occupies the entire upper floor of

this house, as a study. There he secludes himself while engaged in

the composition of his more elaborate works. He has a body servant

and a maid servant to wait upon him; and a parlor down stairs, for

the reception of his visitors; but he has no communication with the

other part of the house. In fact, he never sees the occupants of the

boarding-house beneath his study. He rents his rooms of the lady who

keeps the boarding-house,--Mrs. Smelgin,--who supplies his meals. Thus,

he has the upper part of the house all to himself; and as I have a key

to his rooms, we can go up there and talk at our ease."

"But, is not Dr. Bulgin married?" asked the MAN.

"He is. But his lady, on account of her health (she cannot bear the

noise of the city), is forced to reside in the country with her father."

"Ah!" said the man.

Herman opened the front door with a night key, and led the way along

a hall and up three ranges of stairs, until he came to a door. This

door he opened with another key, and followed by the MAN, he entered

Dr. Bulgin's study. He then locked the door, and they found themselves

enveloped in Egyptian darkness.

"This may be Dr. Bulgin's study, but it strikes me, a little light

would not do it much harm."

"Wait a moment," said Barnhurst,--"I'll light the lamp." And presently,

by the aid of matches, he lighted a lamp which stood on a table of

variegated marble. A globular shade of an exquisite pattern tempered

the rays of the lamp, and filled the place with a light that was

eminently soft and luxurious.

"Be seated," said Barnhurst, but the _stranger_ remained standing, with

his cloak wound about him and his cap drawn over his brows. He was

evidently examining the details of the study with an attentive,--may

be--an astonished gaze.

Dr. Bulgin's study was worthy of examination.

It was composed of the upper floor of Mrs. Smelgin's boarding-house,

and was, therefore, a vast room, its depth and breadth corresponding to

the depth and breadth of the house.

It was, at least, thirty yards in length and twenty in breadth, and the

ceiling was of corresponding height. Four huge windows faced the east,

and four the west.

Thus, vast and roomy, the apartment was furnished in a style which

might well excite the attentive gaze of the stranger.

In the center of the southern wall, stood the bookcase, an elegant

fabric of rosewood, surmounted by richly-carved work, and crowned with

an alabaster bust of Leo the Tenth; the voluptuous Pope who drank his

wine, while poor Martin Luther was overturning the world.

The shelves of this bookcase were stored with the choicest books

of five languages; some glittering in splendid binding, and others

looking ancient and venerable in their faded covers. There were the

most recondite works in English, French, German, Spanish; and there

were also the most popular works in as many languages. Theology,

metaphysics, mathematics, geometry, poetry, the drama, history, fact,

fiction,--all were there, and of all manner of shapes, styles and ages.

It was a very Noah's Ark of literature, into which seemed to have been

admitted _one_ specimen, at least, of every book in the universe.

On the right of the bookcase was a sofa that made you sleepy just to

look at it; it was so roomy, and its red-velvet cushioning looked

so soft and tempting. This sofa was framed in rosewood, with little

rosewood cupids wreathed around its legs.