Here, for one moment, while Corkins and the Madam stand beside the

coffin, in the lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here, for one

moment, turn your gaze away. Look far through the night, and let your

gaze rest upon the fireside light of yonder New England home. It is a

quiet fireside, in the city of Hartford; and a father and a mother are

sitting there, bewailing the singular absence of their only daughter,

a beautiful girl, the hope and the light of their home; she strangely

disappeared a week ago, and since then, they have heard no signs nor

tidings of her fate.

And now they are sitting by their desolate fireside; the father choking

down his agony in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent to her

anguish in a flood of tears. And the eyes of father and mother turn

to the daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant, and forever.

For while they bewail her absence,--while they hope for her return

by morning light,--their daughter rests in the coffin, here, at the

feet of Madam Resimer. Weep, fond mother; choke down your agony with

silent prayer, brave father: but tears nor prayers can never bring your

daughter back again. To-night, she rests in the coffin, at the feet

of Madam Resimer; to-morrow night--Look yonder! A learned doctor is

lecturing for the instruction of his students, and his "subject" lies

on the table before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you see it, father and

mother of the distant New England home,) that "subject" is your only

daughter.

Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day life, are more improbable

than the maddest creations of romance.

"What shall we do with _her_?" again exclaimed Corkins, touching the

coffin with his foot.

The Madam was troubled. "The red book!" she muttered, in an absent way,

"the red book!" Her mind was evidently wandering. "It must be regained

at any price."

"But--this--body," interrupted Corkins, tapping the coffin with his

foot.

"Oh! _this_!" exclaimed the Madam, and a pleasant smile stole over her

face.

"Oh! as to _this_! we can easily dispose of it. I tell you, Corkins, we

will--"

But she did not tell Corkins. For, from the adjoining room, came a cry,

so ringing with the emphasis of mortal agony, that even the Madam was

struck with terror, as she heard it.

Without a word, she led Corkins into the chamber of Alice.

CHAPTER VI.

A BRIEF EPISODE.

Away from these scenes of darkness and of crime, let us, for a moment,

turn aside and dwell, for a little while, on the fireside ray of a

quiet home. Yes, leaving Arthur and Herman to pursue their way, let us

indulge in a quiet episode:

It is a neat two-storied dwelling, standing apart from the street,

somewhere in the upper region of the Empire City. Through the drawn

window-curtains, a softened light trembles forth upon the darkness.

Gaze through the curtains, and behold the scene which is disclosed by

the mingled light of the open fire, and of the lamp whose beams are

softened by a clouded shade.

A young mother sitting beside a cradle, with her baby on her

breast, and a flaxen-haired boy, some three years old, crouching on

the stool at her feet. A very beautiful sight,--save in the eyes

of old bachelors, for whom this work is not written, and who are

affectionately requested to skip this chapter,--a very beautiful

sight, save in the eyes of that class of worn-out profligates, who

never having had a mother or sister, and having spent their lives in

degrading the holiest impulse of our nature, into a bestial appetite,

come, at last, to look upon woman as a mere animal; come, at last, to

sneer with their colorless lips and lack-luster eyes, at the very idea

of a holy chastity, as embodied in the form of a pure woman. Of all the

miserable devils, who crawl upon this earth, the most miserable is that

lower devil, whose heart is foul with pollution at the very mention of

woman. Take my word for it, (and if you look about the world, you'll

find it so,) the man who has not, somewhere about his heart, a high, a

holy ideal of woman,--an ideal hallowing every part of her being, as

mother, sister, wife,--is a vile sort of man, anyhow you choose to look

at him; a very vile man, rotten at the heart, and diffusing moral death

wherever he goes. Avoid such a man;--not as you would the devil, for

the devil is a king to him,--but as you would avoid the last extreme of

depravity, loathsome, not only for its wretchedness, but for its utter

baseness. It's a good rule to go by,--never trust that man who has a

low idea of woman,--trust him not with purse, with confidence, in the

street or over your threshold,--trust him not: his influence is poison;

and the atmosphere which he carries with him, is that of hell.

It is a quiet room, neatly furnished; a lamp, with a clouded shade,

stands on the table; a piano stands in one corner; the portrait of

the absent father hangs on the wall; a wood fire burns briskly on the

hearth. A very quiet room, full of the atmosphere of home.

The mother is one of those women whose short stature, round development

of form and limb, clear complexion and abounding joyousness of look,

seem more lovable in the eyes of a certain portion of the masculine

race, than all the stately beauties in the world. Certainly, she was

a pretty woman. Her eyes of clear, deep blue, her lips of cherry red,

harmonized with the hue of her face, her neck and shoulders,--a hue

resembling alabaster, slightly reddened by a glimpse of sunshine. Her

hair rich and flowing, was neatly disposed about the round outlines of

her young face. And in color,----ah, here's the trouble. I see the curl

of your lip and the laugh in your eyes. And in color, her hair was not

black, nor golden, nor brown, nor even auburn. Her hair was red. You

may laugh if it suits you, but her red-hair became her; and this woman

with the red-hair, was one of the prettiest, one of the most lovable

women in the world. (Why is it that a certain class of authors, very

poverty stricken in the way of ideas, always introduce a red-haired

woman in the character of a vixen,--always expect you to laugh at the

very mention of red-hair--in fact, invest the capital of what little

wit they have, in lamentably funny allusions to red-heads, red-hair,

and so forth? Or if they fall in love with a sweet woman, with bright

red-hair, why do these authors, when they make sonnets to the object

of their choice, persist in calling red-hair by the ambiguous name of

_auburn_?)

And thus, in her quiet home, with her baby on her breast and her boy

at her knee, sat the beautiful woman, with red hair. Sat there, the

very picture of a good mother and a holy wife, lulling her babe to

sleep with a verse from some old-fashioned hymn. Somehow this mother,

centered thus in her quiet home--the blessing of motherhood around and

about her like a baptism,--seems more worthy of reverence and love,

than the entire first circle of the opera, blazing with bright diamonds

and brighter eyes, on a gala night.

The boy resting one hand on his mother's knee, and looking all the

while into her face, asks in his childish tones, "When will father come

home?"

"Soon, love, very soon," the mother answers, and resumes the verse of

the old hymn.

Now, doesn't it strike you that the husband of such a wife, and the

father of such children must be altogether a good man?

We will see him after awhile, and judge for ourselves.

Meanwhile, sit alone with your children, and watch for his

coming,--you, simple hearted woman, that know no higher learning, than

the rich intuitions of a mother's love. Your chastity is like a vail of

light, making holy the room in which you watch, with your boy at your

knee, and your baby on your bosom.

CHAPTER VII.

THROUGH THE SILENT CITY.

It was a strange march which Arthur and Barnhurst, arm in arm, took

through the streets of the Empire City.

"I am ready to attend you wherever you go," whispered Arthur, as

leaving the den of Madam Resimer, they went down the dark street.

"But, where shall I go?" was the question that troubled Barnhurst.

"Home?" He shuddered at the thought. Any place but home! "Can I

possibly get rid of him?" Doubtful, exceedingly doubtful; "his arm

is too strong, and he has me in his power in every way. But that

engagement which I have, to meet a person at the hour of four o'clock,

at a peculiar place,--how shall I dispose of it? Shall I fail to keep

it, or shall I make this man a witness of it?"

Barnhurst was troubled. He knew not what to do. And so arm in arm, they

walked along in silence through a multitude of streets,--streets dark

as grave-vaults, and laid out in old times, with a profound contempt of

right angles--streets walled in with huge warehouses, above whose lofty

roofs, you caught but a glimpse of the midnight stars.

And so passing along, they came at length upon the Battery, and

caught the keen blast upon their cheeks, as they wandered among the

leafless trees. They heard the roar of the waters, and saw the glorious

bay,--dim and vast,--surging sullenly under the broad sky, dark with

midnight, and yet, glittering with countless stars. A starlight view of

Manhattan bay, from the Battery--it was a sight worth seeing. Herman

and Arthur, standing there alone, looked forth in silence. They could

not see each other's faces, but Arthur felt the incessant horror which

agitated Barnhurst's arm and Barnhurst heard the groan which seemed

wrung from Arthur's very heart.

For a long time there was silence. Flash on, old midnight, in your

solemn drapery set with stars,--flash on,--you sparkled thus grandly

ten thousand years ago, as you will ten thousand years hence,--what

care you for the agony of these two men, who now with widely different

feelings, stand awed by your sullen splendor!

"If you've seen enough of this, I guess we'd better go," said Arthur,

mildly, "I am ready to follow you wherever you go."

Barnhurst silently moved away from the waters, and as they went

among the leafless trees, Dermoyne looked back toward the sounding

waves--looked back yearningly as though unwilling to leave the sight of

them, something there was so tempting in that sight. One plunge and all

is over!

They came upon Broadway. It was between two and three o'clock in the

morning. I know of nothing in the world so productive of thought, as a

walk along Broadway about three o'clock in the morning. The haunts of

traffic are closed: the great artery of the city is silent as death:

the mad current of life which whirled along it incessantly a few hours

ago, has disappeared; or if there is life upon its broad flag-stones,

it is life of a peculiar character, far different from the life of the

day. And there it spreads before you, under the midnight stars, its

vast extent defined by two lines of light, which, in the far distance

melt into one vague mass of brightness. New York is the Empire City of

the continent and Broadway is the Empire Street of the world.

If you don't believe it, just walk the length of Broadway on a sunny

day, when it is mad with life and motion,--and then walk it, at night,

and see the kind of life which creeps over its flag-stones under the

light of the stars.

They took their silent march up Broadway.

What's this? A huge pile, surrounded by unsightly scaffolding--a huge

Gothic pile, whose foundation is among graves, and whose unfinished

spire already seems to touch the stars? Trinity Church--Trinity Church,

fronting Wall street, as though to watch its worshipers, who scour Wall

street, six days in the week in search of prey, and on the seventh,

come to Trinity to say a rich man's prayer, from a prayer-book bound in

gold.

And this, what's this? This creature in woman's attire, who glides

along the pavement, now accosting the passer-by in language that sounds

on woman's lips, like the accents of Hell,--and now, throwing her

vail aside, clasps her hands and looks shudderingly around, as though

conscious, that for her, not one heart in all the world, cared one

throb! What's this? That is a woman, friend. A father used to hold her

on his knees, just after the evening prayer was said--a mother used to

bend over her as she slept, and kiss her smiling face, and breathe a

mother's blessing over her sinless darling. But, what is she now? What

does she here alone, out in the cold, dark night? * * * * She is a

tenant of one of the houses owned by Trinity Church. She is out in the

cold, dark night,--the poor blasted thing you see her,--seeking, out of

the hire of her pollution, to swell the revenues of Trinity Church!

She came toward Arthur and Barnhurst, even as they passed before the

portals of the unfinished church.

She laid her hand on Arthur's arm, and said to him, words that need not

be written.

Arthur looked long and steadily into her face. It had been very

beautiful once, but now there was fever in the flaming eyes, and death

in the blue circles beneath them. She had fallen to the lowest deep.

"Look there!" whispered Arthur to Barnhurst, "she was as happy once as

Alice, and as pure,--that is, as happy and as pure as Alice before you

knew her. What is she now?"

Barnhurst did not reply.

Arthur took a silver dollar from his pocket and gave it to the girl.

"Go home," he said, "and God pity you!"

"Home!" she echoed, and took the dollar with an incredulous look,

and then uttering a strange mad laugh, she went to spend the

dollar,--one-half of it for rum and the other half to pay the rent

which she owed to Trinity Church.

(Here it occurs to us, to propose three cheers to good old Trinity

Church,--and three more to the Patent Gospel which influences the

actions of its venerable corporation. Hip--hip--hurrah! Hur--, but

somehow the cheering dies away, when one thinks for a minute of the

vast contrast between the Gospel of Trinity Church and the Gospel of

the New Testament. I somehow think we won't cheer any more.)

Up Broadway they resumed their march, Herman and Arthur, arm in arm,

and silent as the grave. To see them walk so lovingly together, you

would have thought them the best friends in the world.

What's yonder light, flashing from the window of the fourth story? The

light of a gambling hell, my friend. That light shines upon piles of

gold and upon faces haggard with the tortures of the damned.

And these half naked forms, crouching in the doorway of yonder

unfinished edifice,--huddling together in their rags, and vainly

endeavoring to keep out the winter's cold. Children,--friendless,

orphaned children. All day long they roam the streets in search of

bread, and at night they sleep together in this luxurious style.

But we have arrived at the Astor and the Park stretches before us,

the wind moaning among its leafless trees, and its lights glimmering

in a sort of mournful radiance through the gloom. The Park, whose

walks by day and night have been the theater of more tragedies of real

life,--more harrowing agony, hopeless misery, starving despair,--than

you could chronicle in the compass of a thousand volumes. Could these

flag-stones speak, how many histories might they tell--histories of

those, who, mad with the last anguish of despair, have paced these

walks at dead of night, hesitating between crime and suicide, between

the knife of the assassin and the last plunge of the self murderer!

But at this moment shouts of drunken mirth are heard, opposite

the Astor. Some twenty gay young gentlemen, attired in opera

uniform,--black dress-coat, white vest, white kid gloves,--and

fragrant at once of champagne and cologne, have formed a circle

around the ancient pump, which stands near the Park gate. These gay

young gentlemen, after two hours painful endurance of that refinement

of torture, known as the Italian Opera, have been making a tour of

philosophical observation through the town; they have carried on a

brisk crusade against the watchmen; have drank much champagne at a

"crack" hotel; have tarried awhile in the aristocratic resort of Mr.

Peter Williams, which, as you doubtless know, gives tone and character

to the classic region of the Five Points; and now encircling the pump,

they listen to the eloquent remarks of one of their number, who is

interrupted now and then by rounds of enthusiastic applause. Very

much inebriated, he is seated astride of the pump, which his vivid

imagination transforms into a blooded racer--

"Gentlemen," he says, blandly and with a pardonable thickness of

utterance, "if my remarks should seem confused, attribute it to my

position; I am not accustomed to public speaking on horseback. But,

as Congress is now in session, I deem it a duty which I owe to my

constituents, to give my views on--on--on the great Bill for the

Protection of--"

"Huckleberries!" suggested a voice.

"Thank the gentleman from Ann-street," continued the speaker, in true

parliamentary style, as he swayed to and fro, on top of the pump; "of

the great Bill for the Protection of Huckleberries! Now, gentlemen," he

continued, suddenly forgetting his huckleberries, "you know they beat

Henry Clay this time by their infernal cry of Texas and Oregon; you

know it!"

There was a frightful chorus, "We do! we do!"

"You know how bad we felt when we crossed Cayuga bridge,--Polk on top,

and Clay under,--but, gentlemen, I have a cry for 1848 that will knock

their daylights out of 'em. They shouted Texas and Oregon, and licked

us; but in 1848 we'll give 'em fits with _Clay_ and--JAPAN!"

"Clay and JAPAN!" was the chorus of the twenty young gentlemen.

"There's a platform for you, gentlemen! Clay and Japan! We'll give 'em

annexation up to their eyes. Consider, gentlemen, the advantages of

Japan! Separated from the continent by a trifling slip of water, known

as the Pacific ocean. Japan may be considered in the light of a near

neighbor. And then what a delicious campaign we can make, with Japan

on our banner! Nobody I knows anything about her, and we can lie as

we please, without the most remote danger of being found out. Isn't

there something heart-stirring in the very word, JA-PAN? And then,

gentlemen, we'll have 'em; for Japan ain't committed to any of the

leading questions of the day, and we can make all sorts o' pledges to

everybody, and--"

The orator, in his excitement, swayed too much to one side, and fell

languidly from the pump into the arms of his enthusiastic friends;

and, with three cheers for "Clay and Japan," the party of twenty young

gentlemen went, in a staggering column, to a neighboring _restaurant_,

where--it is presumable--a few bottles more put them, not only into

the humor of annexing Japan, but all Asia in the bargain. Arthur and

Barnhurst had observed this scene from the steps of the Astor.

"Do you know this is very absurd?" said Barnhurst, pettishly--"this

walking about town all night?"

"Do you think so?" responded Dermoyne.

"Then why don't you go home?"

Home! Barnhurst shuddered at the thought. Home! Anything, anything but

that!

There was something, too, in the singular gayety of Arthur's tone,

which struck him with more terror than the most boisterous threat.

Underneath this gayety, like floods of burning lava beneath a morning

mist, there rolled and swelled a tide of unfathomable emotion.

"Let us walk on," said Barnhurst, faintly; and they walked on, arm

in arm--the false clergyman with the very terror of death in his

heart--the poor mechanic with a face immovably calm, but with the fire

of an irrevocable resolution in his eyes. They walked on: up Broadway,

and into the region where sits the sullen Tombs, and through the maze

of streets, where vice and squalor, drunkenness and crime, hold their

grotesque revel all night long. Through the Five Points they walked,

confronted at every step by a desperate or abandoned wretch, their ears

filled with the cries of blasphemy, starvation and mirth,--mirth, that

was very much like the joy of nethermost hell. Into Chatham street they

walked, and up the Bowery, and once more across into Broadway, where

the delicate outlines of Grace Church, with its fairy-like sculpture

work, were dimly visible in the night. Toward the North River, and

through narrow alleys, where human beings were herded together in the

last extreme of misery, they walked; and then into broad streets, whose

splendid mansions, dark without from pavement to roof, were bright

within with rich men's revels,--revels, drunken and foul beyond the

blush of shame.

It was a strange, sad march, which they took in the silent night,

through the vast Empire City.

And at every step Arthur gathered the Red Book closer to his side.

And behind them, in all their march, even from the moment when they

left the Battery, two figures followed closely in their wake--unseen by

Arthur or by Barnhurst,--two figures, tracking every step of their way

with all a bloodhound's stealth and zeal.

CHAPTER VIII.

TRINITY CHURCH.

At length--it was near the hour of four--they came to the head of Wall

street once more, and paused in front of the portals of unfinished

Trinity.

"Here you must leave me," cried Barnhurst, in a tone of desperation, "I

have an appointment in this church at the hour of four. Leave me,--at

least for a little while--"

But Arthur held fast the false clergyman's arm.

"I will never leave you," he said. "Keep your appointment, I will

witness it. It will be very interesting to know what business it is,

that can bring you to this unfinished church at the hour of four in the

morning."

Barnhurst set his teeth together in silent rage.

"You cannot,--cannot,--" he began.

"Not a word," sternly interrupted Dermoyne. "Go in and keep your

appointment like a man of your word."

Barnhurst led the way, and they passed under heavy piles of scaffolding

into the dark church. Dark indeed, and unenlivened by a single ray of

light. All around was silent as the grave. The profound stillness was

well calculated to strike the heart with awe, and Arthur and Barnhurst,

as they groped their way along, did not utter a word.

"Here, near the third pillar, I am to meet him," whispered Barnhurst.

"Give me your left hand, then; I will conceal myself behind the pillar,

and hold you firmly, while you converse with your friend."

Herman, in the thick darkness, placed himself against the pillar, and

Dermoyne, firmly grasping his left hand, crept behind it.

Thus they stood for many minutes, awaiting the approach of Herman's

friend. In the dark and stillness those moments seemed so many ages.

A bell, striking the hour of four, resounded over the city.

At length a step was heard, and then a faint cough,--

"Are you here?" said a voice; and Dermoyne, from his place of

concealment, beheld a dimly-defined figure approach the third pillar.

"I am," answered Barnhurst.

"Who are you?" said the voice of the unknown.

"I am Herman Barnhurst."--His voice was low but distinct.

"How shall I know that you are the Barnhurst whom I seek?" asked the

unknown.

There was a pause. Barnhurst seemed to hesitate:

"'_The Night of the Tenth of November,_ 1842,'" he said, and his voice

trembled.

"Right; you are the man," said the unknown. "Did you receive a letter

last evening?"

"I did,"--and Barnhurst's voice was very faint.

"How was that letter signed, and to what did it refer?"

Again Barnhurst hesitated. Arthur felt the hand which he held grow hot

and cold by turns.

"It was signed by 'THE THREE,"' he replied in a faltering voice--"and

referred to an event which _it assumes_ took place on the night of the

tenth of November, 1842."

"'_Assumes_!'" echoed the unknown, with a faint laugh. "You think it

an _assumption_, do you? Well, I like that. And the letter requested

you to meet one of the 'Three,' at this place, at the hour of four this

morning; and it concluded by stating that you would hear something of

great interest to yourself in regard to the _events of that night_."

"It did," faintly responded Barnhurst. "I am here, and--"

"We will have a little private conversation together. First of all, you

must know that I am one of three persons who take a great interest in

your affairs, and desire to save you from a great deal of trouble. We

watch over you with fraternal anxiety, and do all we can to keep you

out of harm. And on the part of the Three, (whose names you will know

in good time, in case you prove reasonable,) I am deputed to give you a

little good counsel."

"Good counsel?"

"Good counsel, was the word. Now, in order to understand this good

counsel, you will understand that the Three are in possession of all

the facts connected with the remarkable event of the _night of the

tenth of November_, 1842. Facts, certified by proof--you comprehend?"

Herman gave a start, but did not reply.

"You will, therefore, listen to the good counsel with patience, I doubt

not. To come to the point, then:--You know that the immense property

of Trinity Church, comprising, at a rough guess, one eighth of the

greatest city on the American continent, has been threatened at various

periods by a series of conspiracies, who have given THE CORPORATION

much trouble, and who, more than once, have nearly accomplished its

ruin?"

"I do," answered Herman; "and these conspiracies have all sprung from

a band of persons, widely dispersed through the United States, and

calling themselves the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus."

"Right," continued the unknown. "Anreke Jans, said to be the natural

daughter of a king of Holland, lived on this island about two hundred

years ago. At her death she bequeathed to her children a certain

farm--a farm which at the present time forms the very heart of New

York, and constitutes a great part of the wealth of Trinity Church,

for it is worth countless millions of dollars. Now you are well aware

that it is alleged by the descendants of Anreke Jans, that this farm

was juggled out of the hands of one of their ancestors by a gross

fraud--a fraud worthy of that curse which Scripture pronounces upon the

man who removes his neighbor's land-mark--and that Trinity Church has

only one right to the ownership of said farm, to wit: the right of the

thief and robber?"

"I am aware of this," responded Herman; "and so powerful have been the

proofs of this fraud, that the Church has, on various occasions, come

near losing the very jewel of all its immense possessions. Only one

course of action has saved it from the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus--"

"It has, when nearly driven to the wall, consented to compromise with

the heirs for their claim,--has simply desired in return, a release,

signed by all the heirs,--and then, on the very eve of settlement, it

has managed to buy off one or two of the most prominent heirs. For

instance, Aaron Burr, (who acted for the heirs, some thirty years ago,)

was lulled into silence by the generosity of the Church. She gave him

several valuable tracts of land, which he sold to Astor--"

The unknown paused for a moment, and then resumed:

"At the present time, these heirs are preparing a conspiracy, more

desperately energetic than any previous effort. It is certainly the

interest of the Church to foil this conspiracy at all hazards. And we

'THREE' persons, not directly connected with the corporation, think

that we can make it our interest to assist the Church in the final

overthrow of the conspirators. To do this effectually, we require the

assistance of one of the heirs, who will wind himself into the plans of

the conspirators, help the plot to ripen, and help us to _gather it_

when it is ripe."

"'One of the heirs?'" muttered Herman.

"Ay, one of the heirs,--and he must be a man of sense, shrewdness and

undoubted respectability. Now--do you hear me?--you, Herman Barnhurst,

are one of the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus."

There was a pause of profound silence. You might have heard a pin drop,

in the deep stillness of that vast edifice.

"I am one of the heirs of Anreke Jans," said Herman; "and what then?"

The voice of the unknown was deep, distinct and imperative:

"You will assist us in foiling these conspirators. You will assist us

willingly, faithfully, and without reserve. This is the good counsel

which I am deputed to give you."

"And if I decline?" said Herman, drawing a long breath.

"You will not decline when you remember the event of the night of the

tenth of November, 1842."

Dermoyne felt the hand which he clasped tremble in his grasp.

"Ah!" and Herman drew another long breath.

"As the Third of the Three, I beg your opinion of my good counsel,"

said the unknown.

"I accept," said Herman, in a husky voice.

"But we must have some pledge for your fidelity--"

"Have you not pledge enough," said Herman, bitterly, "if you know the

events of that night--"

"True; but we require some other little pledge in the way of

collateral--as the money lenders say"--said the unknown, who had

designated himself as "THE THIRD _of the Three_." "In the event of a

certain contingency--a very improbable contingency,--you will inherit

one seventh of the Van Huyden estate--"

Herman gave a start;--he moved forward suddenly, but was drawn back

against the pillar by the strong grip of Dermoyne:

"The Van Huyden estate!" he ejaculated in a tone of utter astonishment.

"I said the Van Huyden estate," continued the Third of the Three,--"and

that should satisfy you that I know all about it. In witness of your

good faith, you will to-morrow make over to us, by our own proper

names, and over your own proper signature, all your right, title and

interest in the Van Huyden estate. The final settlement, you know,

takes place the day after to-morrow. In case you act faithfully to us,

we will restore you your right on the day when, by your assistance, we

have foiled the heirs of Anreke Jans. The good counsel which I have for

you is this:--accept this proposition at once, if you know what is good

for your health, your reputation, your liberty."

The words of the Third of the Three were succeeded by a dead pause. It

was dark, and the changes of Herman's face could not be seen. A sound

was heard, like a half-suppressed groan.

"And if I refuse?" he faltered--"if I cast your absurd proposition to

the winds?"

"Then the _revelation_ of the event of that night, may cast you to the

devil," was the calm reply.

"At least give me some hours for reflection; let me consider your

proposal."

"We had thought of this," answered the unknown. "The time is short.

The 25th of December will soon be here. I am authorized to give you

until to-day at mid-day,--that is, you have nearly eight hours for calm

reflection."

Herman said, after a moment's hesitation, in a low and scarce

perceptible voice,--

"Be it so."

"In case your answer is Yes, you will signify it in this manner"--and

he whispered in the ear of his victim,--whispered a few brief words,

which Herman drank in with all his soul. "Remember, before mid-day,

some seven and a half hours hence."

"You shall have my answer in the manner specified," said Herman, in an

accent of utter bewilderment.

"Our interview is at an end," said the Third of the Three. "As we must

not by any chance be seen leaving this place together, I will pass

through the graveyard, while you go out at the main door. Good night."

And leaving the miserable man, who sank back against the pillar for

support, the Third of the Three passed from the shadows, out into the

graveyard, where white tombstones appeared in the starlight, mingled

with piles of lumber and heaps of building stone.

As he came into the starlight, it might be seen that he was a short

thick-set man, clad in a dark over-coat, whose upturned collar hid the

low part of his visage, while his hat, drawn low over his brows, masked

the upper portion of his face. He chuckled to himself as he picked his

way among the heaps of lumber and scattered masses of building stone:

"It is a nice game, any how you choose to look at it. The heirs of

Anreke Jans can be played against the Church; this man Herman can be

played against the heirs, and the Three can dictate terms to both

parties, and decide the game. And when the Three have won, why then

the Third of the Three can hold the First and Second in his power;

especially, if this man's chance of the seventh of the Van Huyden

estate is transferred to the Third, by his own proper name. Well,

well; law, properly understood, is the science of pulling wool over

other people's eyes: eloquent speeches in court, and the name of a big

practice, may do for some people; but give me one of these nice little

cases, which lie sequestered from the public view, quiet as an oyster

in his bed, and as juicy!"

Thus you see that the Third of the Three was a philosopher. He paused

before a marble slab, over which he bent, tracing with difficulty the

inscription, which was in quaint characters, much worn by time--"VAN

HUYDEN."

"Strange enough! Just as we were about to search the tomb last

night,[1] to be interrupted and scared from our object by a

circumstance so unusual! The snug sum of $200,000, in plate, buried in

a coffin!--an odd kind of sub-treasury! Wonder if there's any truth in

the legend?"

[1] See Episode, page 114 of the Empire City.

As the gentleman thus soliloquized he fixed his eyes attentively upon

the slab; but he did not see the approach of a man, wrapped in the

thick folds of a cloak, and with a broad-brimmed hat over his brow,--a

man who came noiselessly from the shadows and took his place at the

opposite extremity of the slab, quietly folding his arms, as he fixed

his gaze upon the Third of the Three.

A wild sort of picture this: The gloomy church-yard, with its leafless

trees, and tombstones half hidden among heaps of timber and of

stone. Yonder, the church, looking like the grotesque creation of an

enchanter's power, as hidden among uncouth scaffolding, it rises vague

and shapeless into the sky. And here, by the tomb of the Van Huydens,

two figures,--the Third of Three, who, in a deep revery, fixes his eyes

upon the inscription--and the cloaked figure, whose steady gaze is

centered upon the absent-minded gentleman.

"Two hundred thousand buried in a coffin,"--soliloquized "the

Third,"--"I wonder if I could not make a little search. The place is

quiet,--no watchman near--"

"Liar!" said a voice, in tones deep as the sound of an organ. "Learn

that the Watcher always guards the vault of the Van Huydens:--learn

that it is sacrilege to rob the dead."

CHAPTER IX.

THE END OF THE MARCH.

As Dermoyne led Barnhurst forth into the open air, the false clergyman

staggered like a drunken man. His tall and angular form shook like a

reed; and Arthur, catching a glimpse of his countenance, saw that it

was livid and distorted in every feature.

"Do with me what you will," he said in broken accents. "The worst has

come.--I do not care! Come; at last, you shall go home with me. Home!"

He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning his weight on Arthur's arm as

he staggered along.

Terrible as had been the crimes of the wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a

moment, only; for the dying cry of Alice was in his ear.

"Your punishment begins," he whispered.

And thus, up Broadway, they resumed their march through the city.

They had not gone many paces from the church, when two forms sprang

suddenly from the shadows of the scaffolding, both clad in dark

overcoats, with caps drawn over their faces. They were the forms of

those unknown persons who had followed Arthur and Barnhurst from the

Battery over the city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form; his

quick, active, stealthy step, resembled the step of an Indian. The

other was short and thick set, with broad chest and bow-legs.

"Did yer see der Red Book, Dirk?"

"O' coss I did; as he come out o' der church, his cloak opened, and I

seed 'um under his arm. O' coss I did, Slung."

We cannot give any just idea of the peculiar _patois_ of these

delightful specimens of the civilized savages.

"Travel's der word," said Slung.

"O' coss it is: an' if we ketch 'um in a dark alley, or round a sharp

corner, won't we smash his daylights in!"

And the one with his hand on his knife, concealed in the pocket of his

overcoat, and the other with the cord of the slung-shot wound about his

wrist, they resumed their hunt in the track of Dermoyne.

Unconscious of the danger which strode stealthily in his wake, Dermoyne

clasped the Red Book to his side with one arm, and with the other

supported the form of the trembling Barnhurst.

"Yes, we'll go home," muttered the false clergyman--"Home!" He

pronounced the word with a singular emphasis, like a man half bereft of

his senses. "You can work your vengeance on me there, for the worst has

come."

Then, for a long time, they pursued their way in silence, turning

toward the East River, as they drew near the head of Broadway.

As he drew near his destination--near the end of his singular march,--a

wild hope agitated the heart of the wretched man, half stupefied as he

was by despair. It was his last hope.

"This man has feeling," he thought, "and I will try him."

They stood, at length, in the hall of a quiet mansion, the hanging lamp

above their heads shedding its waving light into their faces. Barnhurst

had entered the door by a night key, forgetting, in his agitation, to

close it after him. Arthur dropped his arm, and they confronted each

other, surveying each other's faces for the first time in four long

hours.

It was a singular sight. Both lividly pale, and with the fire of widely

contrasted emotions, giving new fire to their gaze, they silently

regarded each other. The tall and angular form of the clergyman was in

contrast with the compact figure of the mechanic: and Herman's visage,

singular eyes, aquiline nose, bland complexion, and hair sleekly

disposed behind the ears, was altogether different from the face of the

mechanic:--bold forehead, surmounted by masses of brown hair, short and

curling--clear gray eyes, wide mouth, with firm lips, and round and

massive chin; you might read the vast difference between their minds in

their widely contrasted faces.

"Well, I am--home," said Barnhurst, with a smile hard to define.

"I will sleep in your room," answered Arthur, quietly. "To-morrow, at

ten, we go together to that house."

"Let us retire, then," answered Herman. The hanging lamp lighted the

stairway, and disclosed the door at its head.

Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his arm, led the way up the

staircase, and paused for a moment at the door. He bent his head as

if to listen for the echo of a sound, but no sound was heard. Herman

gently opened the door, and entered--followed by Arthur--a spacious

chamber, dimly lighted by a taper on the mantle.

"Hush!" said Herman, and pointed to a small couch, on which a boy of

some three years was sleeping; his rosy face, ruffled by a smile, and

his hair lying in thick curls all about his snow-white forehead.

"Hush!" again said Herman, and pointed to a curtained bed. A beautiful

woman was sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cradled on her arm.

The faces of the mother and babe, laid close together on the pillow,

looked very beautiful--almost holy--in the soft mysterious light.

"My wife! my children!" gasped Herman. As he spoke, the agitation of

his face was horrible to look upon.

Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat. He could not convince

himself that it was not a dream. Again and again he turned from the

face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy on the couch--to the beautiful mother

and her babe, resting there in the half-broken shadows of the curtained

bed,--and felt his knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat.

And in contrast with this scene of holy peace,--a pure mother, sleeping

in the marriage chamber with her children,--came up before him, Alice,

and her bed of torture in the den of Madam Resimer.

"This,--this," gasped Barnhurst, "this is why I couldn't marry Alice!"

Arthur was convulsed by opposing emotions.

"Devil!" he uttered with set teeth and clenched hands,--"and with a

wife and children like these, you could still plot the ruin of poor

Alice!"

"Husband," said the wife, as she awoke from her sleep--"have you come

at last? I waited for you so long!"

* * * * *

Leave we this scene, and retrace our steps. The revel in THE TEMPLE is

at the highest. The masks begin to fall. Hark! to the whispers which

mingle softly with the clinking of champagne glasses. By all means let

us enter THE TEMPLE.

PART FOURTH.

IN THE TEMPLE.

FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN.

DECEMBER 24, 1844.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE TEMPLE--THE CENTRAL CHAMBER.

It was two o'clock on the morning of the 24th of December, 1844,

when Frank led Nameless over the threshold of a magnificent but

dimly-lighted hall.

Attired in black velvet, the golden cross upon her breast, and with

a white vail falling like a snowflake over her face and raven hair,

she pressed his hand and led him forward to the light. You cannot, by

the changes of his countenance, trace the emotions now busy at his

heart; for his face is concealed by a mask; a cap, with a drooping

plume, shades his brow; his form is attired in a tunic of black velvet,

gathered to his waist by a scarlet sash; a falling collar discloses his

throat; and there is a white cross upon his breast, suspended from his

neck by a golden chain. His brown hair, no longer wild and matted, but

carefully arranged by a woman's hand, falls in glossy masses to his

shoulders.

"Stand here, my knight of the white cross, and observe some of the

mysteries of our Temple."

For a moment she raised her vail, and her dark eyes emitted rays of

magnetic fire, and the pressure of her hand made the blood bound in

every vein.

They stood by a marble pillar, near a table on which was placed a lamp

with a clouded shade,--a table loaded with fruits and flowers, with

goblets and with bottles of rich old wine.

Nameless could not repress an ejaculation as he surveyed the scene.

"I am in a dream!" he said.

A vast and dimly-lighted hall, broken by a range of marble columns;

pictures and mirrors flashing and glowing along the lofty walls; and

the very air imbued with the breath of summer, the fragrance of freshly

gathered flowers. Near every column was placed a table, covered with

fruit and flowers, with goblets and bottles of rich old wine; and on

every table, a lamp with a clouded shade shed around a light at once

dim, mysterious and voluptuous. And the mirrors reflected the scene,

amid whose silent magnificence Frank and Nameless stood alone.

"Not in a dream, but in the central chamber of the Temple," she

whispered. "Here, shut out from the world by thick walls, the guests

of the Temple assemble at dead of night, and create for themselves a

sort of fairy world, far different from the world which you see at the

church or opera, or even on Broadway on a sunshiny day."

There was a touch of mockery in her tone as she spoke.

"But do not these guests, as you call them, know each other?" whispered

Nameless. "Do not those who mingle in the orgie of the night, recognize

each other when they meet by daylight?"

"Every _aristocratic_ gentleman knows the _aristocratic_ lady, who

meets him within these walls," replied Frank. "Beyond that nothing is

known. A mask, a convenient costume, hides ever face and form. They

all, however, know the Queen of the Temple,"--she placed her hand upon

her breast; "and the password, without which no one can cross the

threshold of this house, is issued by the Queen of the Temple."

"Queen of the Temple?" echoed Nameless.

"Yes, Queen of the Temple! A Queen who rules by midnight--and the

temple of whose power,--gay, voluptuous, flower-crowned, as you see

it,--is founded upon pollution and death."

She paused; and Nameless saw her bosom heave, and heard the sigh which

escaped from her lips.

"But this night past, you will bid adieu to scenes like this forever?"

whispered Nameless. "You remember your pledge?"

She gently raised the vail; her countenance, in all its impassioned

loveliness, lay open to his gaze. Her eyes flashed brightly, vividly,

although wet with tears.

"Yes," she responded in a whisper. "This night past, I will bid

adieu to scenes like this forever!" and she drew him gently to her

bosom.--"Your life has been dark--mine dark and criminal. But there

is hope for us, Gulian--hope beyond these walls, where pollution is

masked in flowers,--hope in some far distant scene, where, unclogged by

the dark memories of the past, we will begin life anew, and seek the

blessing of God, in a career of faith, of self-denial!"

"And then, Frank," said Nameless,--"should wealth ever be ours, we will

devote it to the redemption of those who have suffered like us, and

like us fallen."

At this moment, a burst of music, from an adjoining chamber, floated

through the vast and shadowy hall. And then the sound of dancing,

mingled with the music--and now and then the music and the dance were

interrupted by the echo of joyous voices.

"'The guests of the Temple' are dancing in the Banquet Chamber," said

Frank. "Masked and vailed, shut out from the world by impenetrable

walls, they are commencing one of those orgies, which awoke the echoes

of the Vatican, in the days of Pope Borgia."

A curtain was thrust aside,--a momentary blaze of light rushed into

the vast hall,--and masked and vailed, the "guests of the Temple" came

pouring into the place.

"Stand here and observe them," whispered Frank.

"A strange and motley throng!" returned Nameless, in a whisper. "Are we

indeed in New York, in the nineteenth century?--or is it in Rome, in

the days of the Borgias?"

And for a few moments, he stood side by side with Frank, in the

shadow of the central pillar, watching the scene in dumb amazement.

Walking, two by two--some forty men and women in all--the guests glided

through the voluptuous light--and shadow, no less voluptuous--of the

central chamber. It was, indeed, a strange and motley crowd! Popes

and cardinals, and monks and nuns, mingled with knights, caliphs

and dancing girls. The effect of their rich and varied costumes,

deepened by the soft light, was impressive, dazzling. A pope led a

dancing girl by the hand--a Christian knight encircled the slender

waist of a houri, a stately cardinal discoursed in low tones with a

staid quakeress, whose enticing form lost none of its charms in her

severely neat attire; and the grand Caliph Haroun Alraschid, unawed by

the precepts of the prophet, supported a vailed abbess, on his royal

arm. Contrasts like these glided among the pillars--now in light, now

in shadow; echoes of softly whispered conversation filled the hall

with a musical murmur; and the mirrors along the walls reflected the

pictures--the tables, loaded with viands and flowers--the rich variety

of costume--the pillars of white marble--the light and shadow, which

gave new witchery to the scene.

There were certain of the maskers who, in an especial manner, riveted

the attention of Nameless.

A man of stately presence and royal stride, attired in a tunic of

purple silk, with an outer tunic of scarlet velvet, edged with white

ermine--hose, also of scarlet--and shoes fastened with diamond buckles.

Even had the mask failed to hide his face, it would have been concealed

by the cluster of snowy plumes which nodded from his jeweled coronet.

"Behold Roderick Borgia!" whispered Frank, as the masked passed along

with his stately stride.

"And the lady who leans upon his arm?"

"Lucretia Borgia!"

Lucretia was masked, but the mask which hid the beauty of her face,

could not conceal the richness of her dark hair, which contrasted so

vividly with the whiteness of her neck and shoulders. A single lily

bloomed in solitary loveliness in the blackness of her hair; her form

was encased in a white robe, which adapting itself in easy folds to the

shape of her noble bust, is girded lightly to her waist by a scarlet

scarf. From the wide sleeve, (edged like the skirt with scarlet), you

catch a glimpse of a magnificent hand and arm.

"Worthy, my dear Lucretia, to rule hearts by your beauty and empires by

your intellect!" said Roderick.

"Ah, your holiness flatters," was the whispered reply.

"Her shape, indeed, is worthy of Lucretia Borgia," said Frank, as

Roderick Borgia and his daughter passed by the central pillar, and

disappeared in the shadows.

"Does she inherit the morals as well as the beauty of the woman-fiend

whose name she bears?"

Ere Frank could reply, another couple, arm in arm, approached the

central pillar. A bulky cardinal in a scarlet hat and robe, holding

by the arm a slender youth attired in modern style, in frock coat and

trowsers of blue cloth,--the trowsers displaying limbs of unrivaled

symmetry, and the frock coat buttoned to the throat over an all

too-prominent bust. The cardinal wore a golden cross on his brawny

chest, and the brown hair of the slender-waisted youth was gathered

neatly beneath a velvet cap, surmounted by a single snowy plume. It was

pleasant to note the affection which existed between the grave cardinal

and his youthful friend! Not satisfied with suffering the head of the

graceful boy to repose on his shoulder, the cardinal encircled that

slender waist with his flowing scarlet sleeve! And thus whispering

softly--

"Dearest Julia!" said the cardinal, "what think you of that _doctrinal_

point?"

"Dearest doctor! what if my husband knew?" softly replied the youth.

They passed by the central pillar, from the light into the shadow.

"How name you these?" asked Nameless.

"Leo, the Tenth, and his nephew," was the answer of Frank,--"but see

here! A monk and nun!"

The monk was tall; his hood and robe fashioned of white cloth bordered

with red; the hood concealed his face, and the robe fell in easy folds

from his shoulders to his sandaled feet. The nun was attired in a hood

and robe of snow-white satin; the hood concealed her face and locks of

gold; but the robe, although loose and flowing, could not conceal the

rounded outlines of her shape. Her naked feet were encased in delicate

slippers of white satin. And clinging with both hands to the arm of the

White Monk, the White Nun went by.

"Beverly, are you sure?" Nameless heard her whisper.

"Sure?" replied the White Monk, in a tone that rose above a

whisper,--"He is false--false--you have the proofs!" And they went from

the light into the gloom.

"She trembles, and her voice falters," said Frank, observing the form

of the retiring nun.

"Did she not say _Beverly_?" asked Nameless, a tide of recollections

rushing upon his brain. "That name--surely I heard it,--"

"Look!" interrupted Frank, pressing his arm,--"An oddly assorted couple

as ever went arm in arm."

And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet jacket and blue trowsers, with

an enormous turban on his head, approached the central pillar, leaning

on the arm,--nay, clutching the hand of a tall lady, whose face and

form were completely concealed by an unsightly robe of black muslin;

a garment which seemed to have been assumed, not so much for the sake

of ornament, as for disguise. Gathering the robe across her head and

face with one hand, she glided along; her other hand,--apparently not

altogether to her liking,--grasped by her singular companion. As the

"Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless heard these words,--

"Havana! A most delightful residence," whispered the Turk.

The "Lady in Black" made no reply,--did not even bend her head; but

passed along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless, as she glided

from view.

Why was it that through every nerve, Nameless felt a sensation

which cannot be described, but which one cannot feel but once in a

lifetime,--and once felt, thrilling from heart to brain, from brain

to the remotest fiber of being, can never be forgotten? A sensation,

as though the hand of one long since dead, had touched his cheek, as

though the presence of one long since given to the grave, had come to

him and _overshadowed_ him?

"Who is that lady?" he whispered,--resting one hand against the pillar,

for a sudden faintness seized him,--"That lady who is matched with a

companion so grotesque?"

"She may be young or old, fair or hideous, but her name I cannot

tell," responded Frank. "As for her companion,--the diminutive Turk

who clutches her hand, and to whose soft pleadings she does not seem

to listen with the most affectionate interest,--his name is----" Frank

bent her mouth close to the ear of Nameless.

"His name?" he interrupted.

"Is one which cannot but excite bitter memories. Israel Yorke, the

Financier!"

At that name, linked with the events of the previous night, and

with the somber memories of other years, Nameless started, and an

ejaculation escaped his lips.

"Israel Yorke! and in this place?"

"Yes,--and why not?" responded Frank, bitterly. "What place so fitting

for the swindler,--pardon me, _Financier_? Is it not well that the

money which by day is wrung from the hard earnings of the poor, should

be spent at night in debauchery and pollution?"

"_From_ the bank _to_ the brothel," thought Nameless, but he did not

breathe that thought aloud.

Frank silently took him by the hand, and lifted her vail. There was a

magic in the pressure and the look. Holding the vail in such a manner

that he might gaze freely upon her countenance, while it was hidden

from all other eyes, she looked at him long and steadfastly.

"Do you regret your pledge?" she said, measuring every word.

"Regret!" he echoed,--for the touch, the look, the voluptuous

atmosphere of her very presence, made him forget the past, the

prospects of the future,--everything, but the woman whose soul shone

upon him from her passionate eyes:--"Can you think it? Regret! Never!"

"Then this is my last night in the Temple. O, my heart, my soul is sick

of scenes like these!" She glanced around the hall, crowded by the

maskers,--"_To-morrow_,--" bending gently to him, until he felt her

breath upon his cheek, "to-morrow,--"

"_To-morrow_!" echoed a strange voice; "but, my lady, I have a word to

say to you _to-night_."

They turned with the same impulse, and beheld the unbidden speaker,

in the form of a Spanish hidalgo, dressed in black velvet, richly

embroidered with gold. He held his mask before his face, and a group of

dark plumes shaded his brow.

She started at the voice, and Nameless felt her hand tremble in his own.

"In a moment I will join you again," she whispered to Nameless; "now,

Count, I am at your service."

And leaving Nameless by the pillar, she took the Count by the arm, and

with him disappeared in the shadows of the hall.

Leaning against the pillar, and folding his arms across his

breast,--over the white cross which glittered there,--Nameless awaited

her return with evident anxiety. He was devoured by contending

emotions. The fascination with which this beautiful woman had enveloped

him,--suspicion of the stranger who had called her from his side,--the

strange and varied scene before him,--these occupied him by turns; and

then, even amid the excitement and fascination of the present, some

faces of the past looked vividly in upon his soul!

And while a scene is transpiring between Frank and the Count, which

will hereafter have a strong influence upon the fate of Nameless, let

us, for an instant, stand with him by the central pillar, and gaze upon

the mysterious ball.

Mild lights, rich shadows, the ceiling supported by marble pillars, the

maskers in their contrasted costumes, and the mirrors reflecting all.

The stately Roderick and the enticing Lucretia are conversing earnestly

in yonder recess,--the White Monk and the White Nun stand face to face

near yonder pillar, her lip pressing the champagne glass offered by

his hand,--Leo the Tenth, paces slowly from the middle of the hall

to the mirror and back again, the head of his beloved nephew on his

shoulder, _her_ waist encircled by his arm; and yonder, apart from

all others, stands the Lady in Black, with her diminutive lover, even

the Turk, kneeling at her feet. Nameless observes all these with an

especial interest. As for the rest, there is a Pope sharing an orange

with a dancing-girl, a Knight halving a bunch of grapes with a houri, a

Cardinal taking wine with a Quakeress; and the saintly Abbess, yonder,

is teaching the grave Haroun Alraschid how to eat a "philopoena!"

"Truly, my life is one of adventure!" muttered Nameless, observing the

fantastic scene. "Last night, arrested as a thief,--a few nights since

the tenant of a mad-house, and to-night in a scene like this! To-morrow

night _what_ and _where_?"

To-morrow night!

Meanwhile, in a dark recess, whose mirror scarce reflected a single

ray, Frank, trembling and agitated, stood face to face with the Count.

His mask was laid aside, and in the dim light she saw his face stamped

with an unusual energy.

"You wish to speak to me?" she said.

"An hour ago I came to this house,--entered your chamber unsummoned,

and to my utter surprise found this young man there. I overheard the

pledge which you exchanged; and now let us have a fair understanding.

Has he promised,--has he plighted his word? Have you accepted him?"

Thus spoke the Count, in a low voice.

"He has, father," replied Frank; "and I have accepted him."

"When and where?" asked the Count, or Col. Tarleton, as you please.

"As soon as I leave this place, and am the tenant of a _home_," replied

Frank, her voice trembling on that word, so new to her--"_home_!"

"Daughter," said Tarleton, and his voice was deep and husky, indicating

powerful emotion, "I have a few words to say to you; you will do

well to heed them. The drama of twenty-one years draws to a close.

The termination of the fifth act will decide my fate and yours. This

_boy_ is now almost the only obstacle between myself and my brother's

unbounded wealth, and between you and the position of a respected, if

not virtuous, woman. And this boy, mark you, shall not leave this house

save as your husband. I swear it! Do you hear me,--"

His voice grew thicker, huskier,--he seized her by the wrist.

"Father!" she gasped, as though her proud spirit was cowed by the

ferocious determination of his manner.

"He shall not leave this house save as your husband. You say that he

is fascinated with you, and you, at first sight, with him. Well! He

has seventy-one thousand dollars now in his possession, (no matter how

gained), and on the 25th of December, that is, to-morrow, if _living_,

he will become the possessor of the Van Huyden estate, a richer man

than Girard and Astor together; ay, ten Astors and Girards on top of

that. As his wife, your position will be that of a queen; and as for

myself, I will sacrifice my hopes as the brother of the testator, in

order to behold you the queenly wife of that testator's son. You hear

me?"

"I do," gasped Frank.

"But there must be no mistake, mark you, no 'slip between the cup and

the lip;' the time is too near, to trust this matter to the remotest

chance of failure. He must be your husband ere he leaves this house,

or,--"

"Or?" faltered Frank.

"Or,--mark you, I do not threaten; but I am speaking Fate,--or, he will

not _appear_ on the 25th of December."

"He will not _appear_? What mean you?" her voice suddenly changed; she

laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Do you mean to say that you will

_murder_ him, dear father?"

"He will not _appear_, I said, and say it again," he resumed in the

same determined voice; "and the inheritance of this incredible estate

will fall either to the seven, or to myself, the brother, or,--are you

listening, daughter?--to the _twin brother_ of this boy."

"Twin brother?" echoed Frank, utterly amazed.

"Yes, twin brother. The time is short, and we must put what we have to

say in the fewest words. You remember your lost brother, Gulian?"

"I do."

"He was not your brother, although you were always taught to regard

him as such. He was the twin brother of the boy who now leans against

yonder pillar. On the night of his birth (wishing to destroy every

obstacle between myself and my brother's estate), I stole him from his

mother's arms. But when I learned the details of my brother's singular

will, I resolved to rear him as my own, and keep him in reserve until

the 25th of December, 1844, when thoroughly under my influence, and

yet backed by undeniable proofs of his paternity, he would appear and

claim his father's estate. It was not until 1832, that I learned that

he had a twin brother in existence; you know what pains I took to

sweep all proof of his existence from the memory of man; and it was

only last night that I learned that this twin brother (now standing by

yonder pillar), was still in being. Now, Frank, is the case clear? The

one whom you were taught to call your brother Gulian, and to regard as

lost, is neither your brother nor is he lost. He is living, and at my

will, on the 25th of December, 1844,--to-morrow,--will appear in place

of yonder youth, unless the marriage takes place at once."

Frank was utterly confounded. Well she remembered the revelation which

Nameless made while in the clairvoyant state; that his mother had given

birth to two children, one of whom had been secreted by the father, the

other stolen by the uncle, but that the lost boy, whom she had been

taught to regard as her brother Gulian, was one of these twins, was the

brother of Nameless,--this was indeed a revelation, an overwhelming

surprise. For a moment she was silent; her brain throbbed painfully.

"But how am I to believe this story?"

"You can disbelieve it, if you like," responded her father drily, "and

risk the consequences--"

"But will not the marriage be as certain to-morrow, the day after, nay

a week hence,--" she faltered.

"Girl! you will drive me mad,--" he clutched her by the

wrist:--"nothing is certain that is not accomplished--"

She felt the blood mount to her cheek, and her heart swell in her

breast:

"Have you no shame?" she said and flung his hand from her wrist--"Do

you forget what you have made me? How can I, knowing what I am, what

you have made me, urge him to hasten this marriage? Have you no shame?

'Come, I am lost and fallen,' shall I speak thus to him, 'I was sold

into shame by my parents, when only fourteen years old. But you must

marry me; to-night; at once; my father says so; he knows best; he sold

me; and wants your fortune!' do you wish me to speak thus to him,

father dear?"

It was now his turn to tremble. The proud spirit of her mother, (before

he had degraded that mother,) spoke again in the tone, in the look of

her daughter. He bit his lip, and ground his teeth.

"Frank, Frank, pity me,--I am desperate, but it is for your sake!" he

cried, changing his method of attack--"Spare me the commission of a new

crime,--spare me! I do not threaten, I entreat."

Wringing her hands within his own, he dragged her deeper into the

shadows of the recess.

"Behold me at your feet;" he fell upon his knees; "the father on his

knees at his daughter's feet; the father already steeped in crime,

beseeches that daughter to save him from the commission of a new crime;

to save him by simply pursuing her own happiness."

Frank was fearfully agitated; she drew her father to his right. "When

do you wish the marriage to take place?" she said in a faltering tone.

"At once,--for your sake,--"

"But the clergyman,--"

"Dr. Bulgin is here. If you consent I will summon him to your chamber.

The ceremony will take place there.

"Wait," she whispered; "I will see him. If I drop my 'kerchief, or take

the cross from his neck all is right."

She glided from her father's side, and passing along the hall, among

the maskers, soon stood by the side of Nameless once more.

Tarleton watched her as she went; watched her as she confronted

Nameless; and while her back was toward him, endeavored, even through

the distance, to mark the result of her mission, from the changes of

the countenance of Nameless. Tarleton's form was concealed by the

hangings of the recess, but his face, projecting from its shadow, was

touched with faint light; light that only rendered more haggard and

livid, its already haggard and livid lineaments. How earnestly he

watched for the anticipated sign! It was not made. He clutched the

hangings with both hands.

It had been a busy night with him. He had taken Ninety-One to the rooms

of young Evelyn Somers, and placed the convict in one room, while the

dead body of his own victim, rested in the other; thence he had passed

to the library of Somers, the father, and held a pleasant chat with

him; and from thence to the counting-room of Israel Yorke, where he had

set Blossom on the track of Ninety-One. And from the counting-room of

Israel Yorke, (after a deed or two which may hereafter be explained)

he had repaired once more to the house of the merchant prince, in time

to find Ninety-One accused of the murder of young Evelyn Somers. He

had rushed to the room of Ninety-One, determined to avenge the murder

of his friend, and to his great astonishment, found that Ninety-One

had escaped by a secret door. Of course, the gallant Colonel knew

nothing of that door! Then he had witnessed the death scene of the

merchant-prince, and after threatening the boy, Gulian, he had returned

to the Temple, brooding all sorts of schemes, big with all kinds of

elaborate deviltry; and had discovered, to his real surprise, Nameless

in his daughter's chamber! Discovered that Frank was in love with

Nameless, and Nameless fascinated by Frank. A busy night, gallant

Colonel! Well may you clutch the hangings with both hands, and watch

for the falling of the 'kerchief, or the lifting of the cross!

"They are talking,--talking,--zounds! Why does she not give the sign?

That sign given and all my difficulties are at an end! The seven heirs,

Martin Fulmer, the estate, all are in my power!"

As these words escaped the Colonel's lips, two figures approached:

one a knight in blue armor, (something like unto the stage

image of the Ghost of Hamlet's father,) and the other in buff

waistcoat, wide-skirted coat, ruffles, cocked hat, and buckskin

small clothes,--supposed altogether to resemble a gentleman of the

old school. The blue knight and the gentleman of the old school

were moderately inebriated: even to a sinuousness of gait, and a

tremulousness of the knees.

"I say Colonel, _what--what_ news?" hiccupped the knight.

"Yes, yes," remarked the gentleman of the old school, with a bold

attempt at originality of thought, "what _news_?"

"Pop!--" the Colonel looked at the knight,--"Pills!" he surveyed the

gentleman of the old school; "I've sad news for you. Passing by the

house of old Mr. Somers, an hour or two ago, I discovered that his son

had been murdered in his room, you mark me, by an escaped convict, who

was found concealed on the premises. Sad news, boys!"

"Extraordinary!" cried Pop and Pill in a breath. And the two drew near

the principal and conversed at leisure with him; the Colonel all the

while watching for the sign!

Frank and Nameless!

She found him leaning against the central pillar, his arms folded on

his breast, his large gray eyes (for the mask had fallen from his

face,) roving thoughtfully around the hall. How changed that face! The

cheeks, no longer sallow, are flushed with hope; the lips, no longer

colorless and dropped apart in vacant apathy, are firmly set together;

the broad forehead, still white and massive, is stamped with thought;

the thought which, no longer dismayed by the bitter past, looks

forward, with a clear vision to the battles of the future. The events

of the night had given new life to Nameless.

She caught his gaze,--and at once enchained it. His eye derived new

fire from her look, but was chained to that look.

"It was _my father_ who wished to speak with me, Gulian," she said, and

watched each lineament of his countenance.

"Your father?" he echoed.

"My father, who has worked you so much wrong,--who has worked such

bitter wrong to me,--and who this very night, while brooding schemes

for your ruin, entered my chamber, and found you in my arms, and heard

the solemn pledge which we exchanged."

"Well, Frank," he interrupted, gazing anxiously into her face.

"He confesses that our,--our _marriage_, will more than exceed his

wildest hope. That the very thought of it, makes him feel bitter

remorse for the past, and levels every evil thought, as regards the

future. But--"

She paused and took his hands in hers, and bent her face nearer to him,

until her burning gaze, riveted every power of his soul.

"But he is afraid that you will hereafter regret your pledge of

marriage."

"Frank!"

"That you, as the possessor of incredible wealth, will look back with

wonder, with contempt upon the hour, when you plighted your faith to

one like me!"

"One like you! Frank, Frank, do you think thus?"

"That once secure in your possessions, you will regard as worse than

idle words, a promise made to the daughter of your enemy,--to a woman,

whose life has been--spare me--"

She buried her head upon his breast; he drew her to him and felt the

beating of her heart.

"Oh, Frank, can you think thus meanly of me?" he cried, completely

carried away by her wild beauty, her agitation, her tears. "My promise

once made cannot be taken back. I know what I promise; I know the

future. I have risen from the grave of my past life; you, too, shall

rise from the grave of your past life. We will begin life anew. We

will walk the world together! Oh, would that this hour, this moment, I

could make my compact good, beyond all chance of change, all danger of

repeal!"

"Do you really wish thus, Gulian?" She raised her face, and her soul

was in her eyes. "Is that the deepest wish of your heart?"

"Frank, I swear it!"

She took the white cross from his neck,--held it for a moment over her

head; it glittered brightly in the light; and then she wound the chain

about her own neck, and the white cross glittered on her proud bosom.

"Take this in exchange"--she took the golden cross from her breast, and

wound its chain about his neck; the cross glitters over his heart--"in

witness of our mutual pledge. And Gulian,--" there was a look--an

extended hand--"Come!"

She led him from the light into the shadows, and--while his every pulse

bounded as with a new life--from the hall.

And, as they passed from the hall, Leo the Tenth, clad in his cardinal

attire, led his young nephew lovingly among the shadows of the vast

apartment,--now pausing to refresh himself with sparkling Heidsick, and

now twining his arm about the nephew's waist, trying to soothe _her_

mind upon some doctrinal point:

"Dearest Julia," he whispered, as they paused for a moment in the

shadow of a pillar.

"Dearest Doctor," she responded--that is, the nephew, clad in blue

frock-coat and trowsers; "you don't think that my husband ever will--"

The sentence was interrupted. A grave hidalgo, attired in black velvet,

richly embroidered with gold, confronted the Doctor, otherwise Leo the

Tenth, and whispered earnestly in his ear.

"Impossible!" responded Leo the Tenth, shaking his head. "Impossible,

my dear Tarleton!"

"It _must_ be," answered the hidalgo, emphatically. "A quiet room up

stairs, and no one present save myself, the bridegroom and the bride."

"But my name will appear on the certificate," hesitated the Doctor,

"and questions may be asked as to the _place_ in which this marriage

was celebrated, and _how_ I came to be there."

"Pshaw! You are strangely scrupulous," returned the hidalgo. "I tell

you, Doctor, it is a matter of the last importance, and cannot be put

off. Then you can celebrate the marriage a _second_ time, in _another

place_, and--" he whispered a few emphatic words in the Doctor's ear.

Leo the Tenth was troubled, but he saw no way of escape.

"Well, well, be it so, Tarleton; you are an odd sort of fellow. Julia,

dear,"--this, aside to his nephew; "wait for me in the Scarlet Chamber,

up stairs, you know?" The nephew whispered _her_ assent. "I'll join

you presently. Now Count,"--this to Tarleton,--"lead the way, and let

us celebrate these mysterious nuptials."

And the three left the Central Hall together. Tarleton and the Doctor,

on their way to the Bridal Chamber, and the nephew on _her_ way to the

Scarlet Chamber.

Near the central pillar stood the White Monk, with the hands of the

White Nun resting on his shoulders, and his arms about her waist. Her

hood has fallen; her countenance, flushed and glowing, lies open to

his gaze. A beautiful nun, with blue eyes, swimming in fiery light,

and unbound hair, bright as gold, sweeping a cheek like a rosebud,

and resting upon neck and shoulders white as snow. And the White Monk

bends down, and their lips meet, and she falls, half passionately, half

shuddering, on his breast.

"Oh, Beverly, Beverly! whither would you lead me?" He scarce can

distinguish the words, so faint, so broken by agitation is her voice.

"Your husband is false. He has trampled upon your love. I love you, and

will avenge you. Come, Joanna!"

And from the light into the shadow, with the trembling nun half resting

on his arm, half reposing on his breast, passes the White Monk. They

reach the threshold of the hall. Pass it not, Joanna, as you love your

child! pass it not, on peril of your soul! But no! "Come, Joanna!" and

they are gone together.

From the throng of maskers who glide to and fro, select, for a moment,

the lady in black, who stands gloomily yonder, gathering the folds of

her robe about her face. Does this scene attract, or repel her? Within

that shapeless robe, does her bosom swell with pleasure--voluptuous

pleasure? or does it contract with terror and loathing?

Her Turkish friend,--the diminutive gentleman in the red jacket,

spangled all over, blue trowsers and red morocco boots,--in vain offers

her a glass of sparkling champagne; and just as vainly essays to draw

her forth in conversation. At last, he seems to weary of her continued

silence:

"If you will favor me with your company for a few moments, I will

explain the purpose which impelled me to request an interview at this

place."

"Let it be at once, then," is the whispered reply.

He offers his arm; she quietly but firmly pushes it aside.

"I will follow you," she says in her low-toned voice.

And the Turk leaves the hall, followed by the Lady in Black.

"The Blue Chamber!" he ejaculates, as he crosses the threshold.

Look again among the throng of guests. The stately Roderick Borgia

stands yonder, his massive form reflected in a mirror, and the white

robed Lucretia resting on his arm. They are masked; you cannot see

the voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the somber passion of his

bronzed visage. But his brow,--that vast forehead, big with swollen

veins,--is visible; and the mirror reflects her spotless neck and

shoulders, and the single lily set among the meshes of her raven hair.

It is a fine picture; the majestic Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing

Lucretia robed in snowy white: never before did mirror reflect a more

striking contrast. You hear his voice--that voice whose organ-like

depth stirs the blood:

"A career, beautiful lady, now opens before you, such as the proudest

queen might envy--"

And he attempts to take her soft, white hand within his own. But she

gently withdraws it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems, is timid,

or--artful.

"Yes, we will revive the day, when intellect and beauty, embodied in a

woman's form, ruled the world." How his deep voice adds force to his

words. "Yes, yes; you shall be my Queen--mine! But come; I have that to

say to you, which will have a vital bearing upon your fate."

"And my brother?" whispers Lucretia.

"And also the fate of your brother," responds Roderick Borgia. "Come

with me to the Golden Room."

"To the Golden Room be it then!"

And Lucretia leans on the arm of Borgia and goes with him from the Hall

to the Golden Room: his broad chest swelling with the anticipation of

triumph,--and her right hand resting upon the hilt of the poniard which

is inserted in the scarf that binds her waist.

Ere we follow the guests who have left the hall, and trace their

various fortunes, let us cast a momentary glance upon those who remain.

The Caliph Haroun Alraschid sits by yonder table, sipping champagne

from a long-necked glass, which now and then is pressed by the lips

of his fair abbess. The caliph has evidently been refreshing himself

too bountifully with the wines of the Giaour; his mask falls aside,

and beneath his turban, instead of the grave oriental features of the

magnificent sultan, you discern the puffy face and carbuncled nose of a

Wall street broker.

A little beyond the caliph, a pope has fallen to sleep on yonder sofa,

the triple crown resting neglected at his feet, and his pontifical

robes soiled with the stains of wine. The cardinal and his Quakeress

are trying the steps of the last waltz. The Christian knight and his

houri, stand by the table, near the pillar,--discussing the merits of

Mahomet's paradise? No! But the remains of a cold boiled fowl. And

then, in the shadows of the pillars, and in front of the lofty mirrors,

still glided to and fro the contrasted train of monks and nuns, knights

and houris, cardinals and Quakeresses, popes and dancing girls. All

were masked--still masked: for there were faces in that hall which you

may have often seen in the dress circle of the opera, or in the dress

pews of the fashionable church. Remove those masks? Never! not as you

value the peace of a hundred families, the reputation of some of our

most exclusive fashionables, the repose of "good society."

Thus the maskers glide along; the music strikes up in an adjoining

hall--the dance begins--the orgie deepens,--and,--

Let the curtain fall.

CHAPTER II.

THE BLUE ROOM.

The diminutive Turk, followed by the Lady in Black, led the way from

the hall, to a distant and secluded apartment. She still gathered the

hood of her robe closely about her face, and not a word was spoken as

they pursued their way along the dark passage. A door was opened, and

they entered a small although luxurious apartment, hung with hangings

of azure, veined with golden flowers. A wax candle, placed in its

massive candlestick, on a table before a mirror, gave light to the

place. It was a silent, cozy, and luxurious nook of the Temple, remote

from the hall, and secure from all danger of interruption.

As the Turk entered he flung aside his mask and turban, and disclosed

the ferret eyes, bald head and wiry whiskers of Israel Yorke. Israel's

bald head was fringed with white hairs; his wiry whiskers touched with

gray; it was a strange contrast between his practical _bank-note_ face,

and his oriental costume.

"Now," he cried, flinging himself into a chair, "let us come to some

understanding. What in the deuce do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" echoed the Lady in Black, who, seated on the sofa,

held the folds of the robe across her face.

"Yes, _what_ do you mean?" replied Israel, giving his Turkish jacket a

petulant twitch. "Did I not help you out of that difficulty in Canal

street, last evening, and rescue you from the impertinence of the

shop-keeper?"

"Yes," briefly responded the lady.

"Did I not, seeing your forlorn and desolate condition, pin a note

to your shawl, signed with my own name, asking you to meet me at

this place, at twelve o'clock, 'where,' so I said, 'my worthy and

unprotected friend, now so bravely endeavoring to get bread for

an afflicted father, you will hear of something greatly to your

advantage.' Those were my words, '_greatly to your advantage_.'"

"Those were the words," echoed the lady, still preserving her

motionless attitude.

"And in the note I inclosed the password by which only admittance can

be gained to this mansion?"

"You did. I used it; entered the mansion and met you." Her voice was

scarcely audible and very tremulous.

"You met me, oh, indeed you met me," said Israel, pulling his gray

whiskers; "but what of that? An hour and more has passed. You have

refused even a glass of wine,--have never replied one word to all my

propositions; egad! I have not even seen your face."

"And now you have brought me to this lonely apartment to repeat your

proposals?"

"Yes!" Israel picked up his turban and twirled it round on the end of

his finger. "I want a plain answer, yes, or no! I am a plain man,--a

man of business. You are poor, almost starving (pardon me if I pain

you), and you have an aged and helpless father on your hands. You

have nothing to look forward to, but starvation, or, the streets. You

remember the scene in the shirt-store to-night?"

The lady gently bowed her head, and raised both hands to her face.

"I am rich, benevolent, always had a good heart,"--another twirl of the

turban,--"and in a day or two I am about to sail for Havana. Accompany

me! Your father shall be settled comfortably; the sea-breezes will do

you good, and,--and,--the climate is delicious." And the fervent Turk

stroked his bald head, and smoothed his white hairs.

"Accompany you," said the lady, slowly; "in what capacity? As a

daughter, perchance?"

"Not ex-act-ly as a daugh-t-e-r," responded Israel; "but as a

_companion_."

There was a pause, and the robe was gently removed from the head and

face of the Lady in Black. A beautiful countenance, shaded by dark

brown hair, was disclosed; young and beautiful, although there was the

shadow of sorrow on the cheeks, and traces of tears in the eyes. An

expression inexpressibly sad and touching came over that face, as she

said, in a voice which was musical in its very tremor,--

"And you, sir, knew my father in better days?"

"I did."

"You never knew any one of his race guilty of a dishonorable act?"

"Never did."

"And now you find him aged and helpless,--find myself, his only hope,

reduced to the last extreme of poverty, with no prospect but (your own

words), starvation, or the streets,--"

"Ay." Israel, beneath his spectacles, seemed to cast an admiring glance

at his Turkish trowsers and red morocco boots.

"And in this hour, you, an old friend of the family, who have

never known one of our name guilty of an act of dishonor, come to

me, and seeing my father's affliction, and my perfectly helpless

condition, gravely propose that I shall escape dishonor by becoming

your--_mistress_! That is your proposition, sir."

She rose and placed her hand firmly on Israel's shoulder, and looked

him fixedly in the eye. The little man was thunderstruck. Her flashing

eyes, her bosom heaving proudly under its faded covering, the proud

curl of her lip, and the firm pressure of the hand which rested on his

shoulder, took the Financier completely by surprise.

"I am scarce sixteen years old," she continued, her eyes growing larger

and brighter, "my childhood was passed without a care. But in the

last two years I have gone through trials that madden me now to think

upon; trials that the aged and experienced are rarely called upon to

encounter; but in the darkest hour, I have never forgotten these words,

'Trust in God;' never for an instant believed that God would ever leave

me to become the prey of a man like _you_!"

And she pressed his shoulder, until the little man shook again, his

gold spectacles rattling on his nose.

"For, do you mark me, the very trials that have well-nigh driven me

mad, have also given me strength and courage, may be, the strength, the

courage of despair, but still the courage, when the last hope fails, to

choose death before dishonor!"

"But your father," faltered Israel.

"My father is without bread; but once in twenty-four hours have I

tasted food, and that a miserable morsel; but rather than accept your

proposals, and lie down with shame, I would put the poison vial first

to my father's lips, then to my own! Yes, Israel Yorke, there is a God,

and He, in this house, when the last hope has gone out, when there is

nothing but death before, gives me strength to spit upon your infamous

proposals, and to die! Strength such as you will never feel in your

death-hour!"

"Pretty talk, pretty talk," faltered Israel; "but what does it amount

to? Talk on, still the fact remains; you and your father are starving,

and you reject the offer of the only one who can relieve you."

She raised her eyes to heaven. She folded her hands upon her heaving

breast. Her face was unnaturally pallid; her eyes unnaturally bright.

As she stood, in an attitude so calm and severe, she was wondrously

beautiful. Her voice was marked with singular elation,--

"O, my God! there must be a hell," she said. "There must be a place

where the injustice of this world is made straight; else why does this

man sit here, clad in ill-gotten and superfluous wealth, while my aged

father, one of his victims, lacks at this hour even a crust of bread?"

Israel's feelings can only be described by a single

word--"uncomfortable." He shifted nervously in his chair, and twirled

his turban on the end of his finger; then rubbed his bald head,

smoothed his white hair, and pulled his wiry whiskers.

"What in the devil did you come to see me for, if such was your opinion

of me?"

"I came to see you as a last hope;" her countenance fell, and her tone

was that of unalloyed despair. "I thought that remorse had been busy at

your heart; that you wished to atone for the past by a just, although

tardy, restitution. I thought----"

"Remorse! restitution!" laughed the Financier. "Come, I like that!"

"That knowing the utterly destitute condition of the father, you had

summoned the daughter, in order to tender to her, at least, a portion

of the wealth which you wrung from him----"

Choked by emotion, she could not proceed, but grew pale and paler,

until a flood of tears came to her relief.

"O, sir, a pittance, a pittance, to save my father's life!" She flung

herself at his feet, and clutched his knees. Her much-worn bonnet fell

back upon her neck, and her hair burst its fastening, and descended

in wavy masses upon her shoulders. Her face was flushed with sudden

warmth; her eyes shone all the brighter for their tears. "A pittance

out of your immense wealth, to save the life of your old friend, my

father! His daughter begs it at your feet."

Israel gazed at her deliberately through his gold spectacles,--

"Oh, no, my dear," he said, and a sneer curled his cold lip; "you are

too damnably virtuous."

The maiden said no more. Relaxing her grasp, she fell at his feet, and

lay there, pale and insensible, her long hair floating on the carpet.

The agony which she had endured in the last twenty-four hours had

reached its climax. She was stretched like a dead woman at the feet of

the Financier.

"Trust in God,--good motto for a picture-book; but what good does it

do you now my dear?" thus soliloquized Israel, as he knelt beside the

insensible girl. "Don't discount that kind of paper in my bank that I

know of. Fine arm, that, and splendid bust!" He surveyed her maidenly,

yet rounded proportions. "If it was not for her stubborn virtue, she

would make a splendid companion. Well, well,----"

A vile thought worked its way through every lineament of his face.

"Once in my power, all her scruples would be at an end. We are

alone,"--he glanced around the cozy apartment,--"and I think I'll try

the effect of an anodyne. Anodynes are good for fainting spells, I

believe."

He drew a slender vial from beneath his Turkish jacket, and holding it

between himself and the light, examined it steadily with one eye.

"It is well I thought of it! 'Twill revive her,--make her gently

delirious for a while, and she will not come to herself completely

until to-morrow; much surer than persuasion, and quicker! Trust in

God,--a-hem!"

He raised her head on his knee, and un corked the vial and held it to

her lips.

At that moment there was a quick, rapid knock at the door. It broke

startlingly upon the dead stillness.

"Why did I not lock it?" cried Israel, his hand paralyzed, even as it

held the vial to the poor girl's lips.

Too late! The door opened, and one by one, six sturdy men, in rough

garments and with faces by no means ominous of good stalked into the

room.

And over the shoulders of the six, appeared six other faces, all

wearing that same discouraging expression. It may not be improper to

state that every one of the twelve carried in his right hand a piece of

wood, that deserved the name of a stick, perchance, a club.

And shuffling over the floor, they encircled Israel. "Got him," said

one who appeared to be the spokesman of the band, "safe and tight! Had

a hunt, but fetched him at last. I say, Israel, my Turk, (a gentle hint

with a club), get up and redeem your paper!"

And he held a bundle of bank notes,--Chow Bank, Muddy Run, Terrapin

Hollow, under the nose of the paralyzed Financier.

CHAPTER III.

THE GOLDEN ROOM.

Roderick Borgia leads Lucretia across the threshold of the Golden

Room. She utters an ejaculation of wonder mingled with terror. For it

is a magnificent, and yet a gloomy place that Golden Room. A large

square apartment, the walls concealed by black hangings,--hangings of

velvet fringed with gold. The floor is covered with a dark carpet, the

ceiling represents a sun radiating among sullen clouds. The chairs, the

sofa, are covered with black velvet, and framed in gold. Only a single

mirror is there,--opposite the sofa, reaching from the floor to the

ceiling, framed in ebony, which in its turn is framed in a border of

gold. A lamp, whose light is softened by a clouded shade, stands on an

ebony table, between the sofa and the mirror, and around the lamp are

clustered fruits and flowers, two long necked glasses, and a bottle of

Bohemian glass, blue, veined with gold. A single picture, suspended

against the dark hangings, alone relieves the sullen grandeur of the

place. It is of the size of life, and represents Lucretia Borgia, her

unbound hair waving darkly over her white shoulders, and half bared

bosom, her eyes shooting their maddening glance, from the shadow of

the long eyelashes, her form clad in a white garment, edged with

scarlet,--a garment which, light and airy, floats like a misty vail

about her beautiful shape. Coming from the darkness into this scene,

the masked Lucretia, as we have said, could not repress an ejaculation,

half astonishment, half fear--

"Never fear," cries Roderick gayly, as he flung his plumed cap on the

table. "It looks gloomy enough, but then it is like the Golden Room

in the Vatican, of which history tells. And then,"--he pointed to the

picture, "the living Lucretia need not fear a comparison with the dead

one. Remove your mask! I am dying to look upon you."

Lucretia sank upon the sofa with Roderick by her side. Roderick

unmasked and revealed the somber features of Gabriel Godlike. Lucretia

dropped her mask, and the light shone on the face of Esther Royalton.

"By heavens, you are beautiful!"--his eyes streamed with singular

intense light, from the shadow of his projecting brow.

And she was beautiful. A faultless shape, neck and shoulders white

as snow, a countenance framed in jet-black hair, the red bloom of a

passionate organization on lips and cheeks, large eyes, whose intense

light was rather deepened than subdued by the shadow of the long

eyelashes. And then the blush which coursed over her face and neck,

as she felt Godlike's burning gaze fixed upon her, can be compared to

nothing save a sudden flash of morning sunlight, trembling over frozen

snow. One of those women, altogether, whose organization embodies the

very intensity of intellect and passion, and whose way in life lies

along no middle track, but either rises to the full sunlight, or is

lost in shadows and darkness.

"You consent, my child?" Godlike softened his organ-like voice,--took

her hand within his own--she did not give, nor did she withdraw her

hand,--"Randolph shall go abroad, upon an honorable mission to a

foreign court, where he will be treated as a man, without regard to the

taint (if thus it may be called) in his blood. He will have fair and

free scope for the development of his genius. And you,--"

He paused. She lifted her eyes to his face, and met his burning

glances, with a searching and profound look.

"And myself,--"

"And you shall go with me to Washington, where your beauty shall

command all hearts, your intellect carve for yourself a position, that

a queen might envy."

She made no reply, but her eyes were downcast, her beautiful forehead

darkened by a shade of thought. Was she measuring the full force and

meaning of his words?

"In,--what--capacity--did--you--say?" she asked at length in a faint

voice.

"As my ward,--" responded Godlike; "you will be known as my ward,

the heiress and daughter of a wealthy West Indian, who at his death,

intrusted your person and fortune to my care. You will have your

own mansion, your pair of servants, carriage and so-forth,--in fact,

all the externals of a person of immense wealth. As my ward you will

enter the first circles of society. The whole machinery of life at the

Capital will be laid bare to your gaze, and with your hand upon the

spring which sets that machinery in motion, you can command it to your

will. You will not live, you will reign!"

"Tell me something," said Esther, in a low voice, her bosom for a

moment swelling above the scarlet border of her robe,--"Tell me

something of life at the Capital,--life in Washington City."

Godlike laughed until his broad chest shook again,--a deep sardonic

laugh.

"Poets have prated of the influence of woman, and most wildly! But

life in Washington City distances the wildest dream of the poets.

There woman is supreme. Never was her influence so absolute before,

at any court,--neither at the court of Louis the Great, nor that of

George the Fourth,--as at the plain republican court of Washington

City. The simple people, afar off from Washington, think that it

is the President, the Heads of the Department, the Senators and

Representatives, who make the laws and wield the destinies of the

republic. They think of great men sitting in council, by the midnight

lamp, their hearts heavy, their eyes haggard with much watching over

the welfare of the nation. Bah! when the real legislator is not a grave

senator or solemn minister of state, but some lovely woman, armed

only with a pair of bright eyes, and a soft musical voice. The grave

legislators of the male gender, strut grandly in their robes of office,

before the scenes,--and that poor dumb beast, the people, opens its big

eyes, and stares and struts; but behind the scenes, it is woman who

pulls the wires, makes the laws, and sets the nation going." He paused

and laughed again. "Why, my child, I have known the gravest questions,

in which the very fate of the nation was involved, decided upon, in

senate or in cabinet, after long days and nights of council and debate,

and,----knocked to pieces in an instant by the soft fingers of a pretty

woman. It is red tape, _versus_ bright eyes in Washington City, and

eyes always carry the day."

"This is indeed a strange story you are telling me," said Esther, her

eyes still downcast.

Godlike for a moment surveyed himself in the mirror opposite, and

laughed.

"I vow I had quite forgotten, that I was arrayed in this singular

costume,--scarlet tunic, edged with ermine, and so-forth,--it

is something in the style of Borgia, and," he added to himself,

surveying the somber visage and massive forehead, surmounted by iron

gray hair,--"not so bad looking for a man of sixty! You think it

impossible?" he continued aloud, turning to Esther, who had raised her

hand thoughtfully to her forehead,--"why my dear child, a man who lives

in Washington for any time, sees strange things. I have seen a husband

purchase a mission by the gift of the person of a beautiful wife; I

have seen a brother mount to office over the ruins of his sister's

honor; I have seen a gray-haired father, when all his claims for

position proved fruitless, place in the scale, the chastity of an only

and beautiful daughter--and win. By ----!" he drew down his dark brows,

until his eyes were scarcely visible, "How is it possible to look upon

mankind with anything but contempt,--contempt and scorn!"

"But," and Esther raised her eyes to that bronzed face, every lineament

of which now worked with a look of indescribable scorn,--"you have

genius,--the loftiest! you tower above the mass of men. You have

influence,--an influence rarely given to any one man; it spans the

continent; why not use your genius and influence to make men better?"

There was something in her tone, which struck the heart of Godlike.

The expression of intense scorn was succeeded by a look of sadness as

intense. His brows rose, and his eyes looked forth, large, clear and

dreamy. It was as though that dark countenance, seamed by the wrinkles

of long years of sin, had been, for an instant, baptized with the hope

and freshness of youth.

"That was long ago; long ago; the dream of making men better. I felt it

once,--tried to carry it into deeds. But the dream has long since past.

I awakened from it many years ago. You see it is very pleasant to

believe in the innate goodness of human nature, but attempt to carry it

into action, and hark! do you not hear them, the very people, to whom

yesterday you sacrificed your soul; hark! '_crucify him! crucify him!_'"

He rose from the sofa, and the mirror reflected his majestic form, clad

in the attire of Roderick Borgia, and his dark visage, stamped with

genius on the giant forehead, and burning with the light of a giant

soul in the lurid eyes. He was strangely agitated. His chest heaved

beneath his masker's attire. There was an absent, dreamy look in his

upraised eyes.

"I used to think of it, and dream over it, in my college days,--of

that history in which 'Hosanna!' is shouted to-day, and palm branches

strewn; and to-morrow,--the hall of Pilate, the crown of thorns, the

march up Calvary, and the felon's cross! I used, I say, to think and

dream over it in my college days. As I looked around the world and

surveyed history, and found the same story everywhere: found that for

bold imposture and giant humbug, in every age, the world had riches,

honor, fame, while in return, for any attempt to make it better, it had

the cry, 'crucify! crucify!' it had the scourge, the crown of thorns,

and the felon's cross."

His voice swelled bold and deep through the silent room; as he uttered

the last word, he raised his hand to his eyes, and for a moment was

buried in the depth of his emotions. Esther, raising her eyes, regarded

with looks of mingled admiration and awe, that forehead, upon which

the veins stood forth bold and swollen,--the handwriting of the inward

thought.

"The devil is a very great fool," he said, with a burst of laughter,

"to give himself so much trouble about a world which is not worth the

damning." And then turning to Esther, he said bitterly: "Do you ask

me why I utterly despise mankind, and why I have lost all faith in

good? In the course of a long and somewhat tumultuous life, I have

found one thing true,--whenever from a pure impulse, I have advocated

a noble thought, or done a good deed, I have been hunted like a dog,

and whenever from mere egotism, I have defended a bad principle, or

achieved an infamous deed, I have been worshiped as a demigod. Yes, it

is not for one's bad deeds that we are blamed; it is for the good, that

condemnation falls upon us."

He strode to the table, and filled a glass to the brim with blood-red

Burgundy: "My beautiful Esther, your answer! Which do you choose?

On the one hand want and persecution, on the other, position and

power,--yes, on the one hand the life of the hunted pariah; on the

other, sway of an absolute queen."

He drained the glass, without removing it from his lips; then advancing

to the sofa, he took her hands within his own, and raised her gently to

her feet.

"Esther, it is time to make your choice," he said, bending the force

of his gaze upon that beautiful countenance: "which will you be? Your

brother's slave, hunted at every step, and even doomed to be the pariah

of the social world,--or, will you be the ward of Gabriel Godlike, the

beautiful heiress of his West Indian friend, the unrivaled queen of

life at the capital."

Esther felt his burning gaze, and said with downcast eyes,--her voice

very low and faint--"And in return for this generous protection, what

am I to give you?"

"Can you ask, my child?" he said, and pressed her hand within his

own.--"You will be my friend, my counselor, my companion."

"Companion?"

"Wearied with the toils of state, the wear and tear of the world,--in

your presence, I will seek oblivion of the world and its cares. With

you I will grow young again, and--who knows--but guided by you, I

shall, even at three-score, learn to hope in man? Your heart is fresh,

your intellect clear and vivid: I shall often seek your counsel in

affairs of state, for I have learned, that in nine cases out of ten,

it is better to rely upon the _intuitions_ of woman, than upon the

careful logic of the shrewdest man. In a word, dear child, you will be

my companion,--my divinity"--

"Divinity?"

"Yes,--divinity! Tradition says that Lucretia Borgia was the most

wondrously beautiful woman of all her age; and if yonder canvas does

not flatter her, tradition does not lie. Now, you are living and more

beautiful than Lucretia Borgia, without her crimes. Yes, more lovely

than Lucretia, and,--pure as heaven's own light."

"Pure as heaven's own light?"

"You echo me,--and with a mocking smile. Woman! your beauty maddens

me! I adore you!" His face was flushed with passion,--his deep-set

eyes flamed with a fire that could not be mistaken,--his voice,

at other times deep as an organ, was tremulous and broken. First

pressing her clasped hands against his broad chest,--which heaved with

emotion,--he next girdled her waist with his sinewy arm, and despite

her struggles, drew her to his bosom. "Gaze upon yonder portrait! those

eyes are wildly beautiful, but pale when compared with yours. That

form is cast in the mould of voluptuous loveliness, but yours,--yours,

Esther,--yours--"

Advancing toward the portrait, he pushed the hangings aside,--the

doorway of an adjoining apartment was revealed.

"Come, Esther, by heavens you must be mine,--and now!"

There was no mistaking the determination of that husky voice, the

passion of that bloodshot eye.

Now pale as death, now covered from the bosom to the brow with burning

blushes, she struggled in his embrace, but in vain. He dragged her

near and nearer to the threshold--on the threshold (which divided the

Golden Room from the next apartment, where all was dark as midnight)

he paused, drew her struggling form to his breast, and stifled the cry

which rose to her lips, with burning kisses.

With a desperate effort she glided from his arms, and the

next moment,--her hair unloosed on her bosom bared in the

struggle,--confronted him with the poniard gleaming over her head.

"Hoary villain!" she cried, dilating in every inch of her stature,

until she seemed to rival his almost giant height,--"lay but a finger

on me and you shall pay for the outrage with your life!"

Her head thrown back, her bared bosom swelling madly in the light,

her dark hair resting in one rich, wavy mass upon her neck and

shoulders,--it was a noble picture. And her eyes,--you should have seen

the flashing of her eyes! As for the statesman, with one foot upon the

threshold, he turned his face over his shoulder, thus exhibiting his

massive features in profile, and gazed upon her with a look which was

something between the sublime and the ridiculous; a strange mixture of

passion, wonder and chagrin.

"Esther,----"

"No doubt you can induce husbands to sell their wives to you;" the

eyes still flashed, and the poniard glittered overhead; "no doubt,

gray-haired fathers have sold their daughters to your embrace; nay,

even brothers, for a place, may have given their sisters to your

lust; but know," again that bitter word so bitterly said,--'_hoary

villain!_'--"know, hoary villain! that Esther Royalton will not sell

herself to you, even to purchase her brother's safety, his life, much

less her own! For know, that while there is a taint upon my blood, that

there is blood in my veins which never knew dishonor, the blood of ----

----, whose grandchild stands before you!"

As she named that name, Godlike repeated it from pure astonishment.

"You a statesman! you a leader of the American people! Faugh! (Back!

Lay not a finger upon me as you value your life!) May God help the

Republic whose leaders play the farce of solemn statesmanship by

daylight, and at night seek their inspiration in the orgies of the

brothel!"

"But, Esther, you mistake me; do not raise your voice,----" his face

flushed, his eyes bloodshot, he advanced toward her.

At the same instant she caught the purpose of his eye, and with a blush

of mingled shame and anger, for the first time became aware that her

bosom was bared to the light.

She retreated,--Godlike advanced,--she, brandishing the dagger,--he,

with his hands extended, his face mad with baffled passion. Thus

retreating, step by step before him, she reached the table, and cast a

lightning glance toward the lamp.

"You shall be mine, I swear it!" He darted forward.

But while her right hand held the dagger aloft, her left sought the

lamp, and even as he rushed forward with the oath on his lips, the

room was wrapt in utter darkness.

He was foiled. A mocking laugh, which resounded through the darkness,

did not add to his composure.

"Esther, Esther," he said, in a softer tone, endeavoring to smother his

rage, "I will not harm you, I swear it."

And with his hands extended he advanced in the thick gloom; and Esther,

with the handle of her poniard, knocked thrice upon the ebony table.

"Dearest Esther,"--he advanced in the direction from whence the

knocks proceeded, and came in contact with a form,--the form of a

voluptuous woman, with a young bosom warm with life, and young limbs

moulded in the flowing lines of the Medicean Venus? No. Precisely the

contrary. But he came in contact with a brawny form, which bounded

against him, pinioning his arms to his side, at the same moment that

another brawny form clasped him from behind. In a moment, ere he had

recovered the surprise caused by this double and unexpected embrace,

his arms were tied behind his back, a handkerchief was tightly bound

across his mouth, and a second kerchief across his eyes, he was lifted

from his feet, and borne upon the shoulders of two muscular men. It

was not dignified or statesmanlike, but,--historical truth demands

the record,--while in this position, the grave statesman kicked,

deliberately and wickedly kicked. But he kicked in vain.

Presently he was placed upon his feet again, and seated in a chair

whose oaken back reached above his head, and whose oaken arms pressed

against his sides. He could not see, but he felt that light was shining

on his face.

So suddenly had his capture been achieved, so strange and complete

was the transition from the pursuit of the beautiful Esther, to his

present blindfolded and helpless condition, that the statesman, for a

few moments, almost believed himself the victim of some grotesque and

frightful dream.

All was silent around him.

At length a voice was heard, hollow and distinct in its every tone,--

"Gabriel Godlike, you are now about to be put on trial before the Court

of Ten Millions."

There was a long pause; and Godlike, on the moment, remembered every

detail which Harry Royalton had poured into his ears, concerning

this Court of Ten Millions; its power backed by ten millions of

dollars,--its jurisdiction over crimes that 'Courts of Justice' could

not reach,--its sessions held in the deep silence of night, and its

judgments executed as soon as pronounced. Vividly the story of Harry

rose before him; the accusation, the trial, the judgment, the lash, and

the back of the criminal covered with stripes and blood.

"The Court of Ten Millions,"--the voice was heard again,--"as you are,

doubtless, aware, is thus called, because its power is backed by ten

millions of dollars. It exists to punish those crimes which, perchance,

from their very magnitude, go unpunished by other courts of justice.

It exists to judge and punish two classes of crime in especial: crimes

committed for the _love of money_, by the man who seeks to enjoy

_labor's fruits_, without sharing _labor's works_; crimes committed

by the man who uses his _wealth_, or _the accident of his social

position_, as the means of oppressing his fellow-creature, even the

poorest and the meanest. Your mind is profound in analysis. You are

able, at a glance, to trace nearly all the wrongs which desolate

society, and mar the purposes of God in this world, to the classes of

crimes which have been named."

There was another long pause. Gabriel had time for thought.

"Gabriel Godlike! Detected in a gross outrage upon a woman whom you

thought poor and friendless,--detected in using your wealth and your

social position as the means of achieving that woman's dishonor, you

are now about to be put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions."

Another pause. Gabriel began to recover his scattered senses. The

bandage across his mouth concealed the sardonic smile which flitted

over his lips.

"A sort of _Vixhme Gericht_,--something from the dark ages,"--he

ejaculated, mentally. And yet he did not feel comfortable. There was

Harry Royalton's back; he had seen it. "But _they_ would not dare to

flog a statesman,--me! Gabriel Godlike!"

"Still you are at liberty to refuse a trial before this court,"--the

voice spoke again,--"but upon one condition. In a room not far removed

from this, removed from hearing, and yet within a moment's call, are

gathered at this moment a number of gentlemen, who have been summoned

to this house on various pretexts; gentlemen, you will remark, of all

political parties, high in social position, and bearing the reputation

of honorable minded and moral men. Your strongest political friends,

your bitterest political opponents are there."

Gabriel began to listen with attention.

"Now you may refuse to be tried before this court on one

condition,--that you will be exposed to the gaze of this party of

gentlemen, in your present state, with your masquerade attire, and in

presence of the woman whom, but a moment since, you threatened with a

gross outrage."

Gabriel listened with keener interest.

"If you doubt that this party of gentlemen, consisting of--(he named a

number of names familiar to Godlike's ear)--are within call, your doubt

can be solved in a moment."

"It is an infernal trap," and Gabriel ground his teeth with suppressed

rage.

"If you consent to be tried by this court, be pleased to give a gesture

of assent."

Gabriel revolved for a moment within himself, and then slowly nodded

his head.

The bandage was removed from his eyes, and the kerchief from his mouth.

He slowly surveyed the scene in which, much against his will, he found

himself an actor.

It was a spacious apartment, resembling the Golden Room, the walls

were hung with black velvet, fringed with gold, and dotted with golden

flowers; the ceiling represented a gloomy sky, with the sun in the

center, struggling among clouds. It was the same to which he was about

to conduct Esther when she escaped from his arms and confronted him

with the poniard.

But in place of the voluptuous couch which had stood there, with

silken pillows and canopy white as snow, there was a large table

covered with black cloth, and extending across the room from wall

to wall, and behind the table a raised platform, on which stood an

arm-chair, beneath a canopy of dark velvet. A lighted candle in an iron

candlestick, stood on the center of the table, and near it, a knotted

rope, a book, an inkstand, and a sheet of white paper.

The judge of the court was seated in the arm-chair, under the shadow

of the canopy. His face Godlike could not see, for he wore a hat whose

ample brim concealed his features, but his white hair descended to the

collar of his coat. He wore an old-fashioned surtout of dark cloth,

with manifold capes, about the shoulders. His head was bent, his hands

clasped, his attitude that of profound quiet or profound thought.

On his left, resting one hand on the arm of his chair, was Esther; her

white dress in bold relief with the dark background. Her unbound hair

increased the death-like pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with all

their fire.

And on the right of the judge stood a huge negro, whose giant frame

was clad in a suit of sleek blue cloth, while his white cravat and

his wool, also of snow-like whiteness, increased the blackness of his

visage. It was, of course, old Royal. He also rested one hand on an arm

of the judge's chair.

And on the right and left of Gabriel's chair, stood a muscular man,

whose features were hidden by a crape mask.

The scene altogether was highly dramatic. The Borgian attire of Godlike

by no means detracted from its dramatic effect.

The silence of the place,--the gloom scarcely broken by the light of

the solitary candle,--the contrast between this scene and the one in

which he had been an actor but a few moments previous,--all had their

effect upon the mind of the statesman.

"A trap! get out of it as I may. An infernal trap!"

Without raising his head, or removing his clasped hands from his

breast, the judge spoke, in an even and distinct, although hollow

voice,--

"You may still refuse to be tried by this court. Consent to be exposed

in your present condition to the gentlemen whom I have named, (and who

may be brought hither in an instant), and the trial will not proceed."

The blood rushed to Gabriel's face, but he made no reply.

"Or, if you doubt that those gentlemen are near, it is not too late to

remove your doubts."

The veins began to swell on Gabriel's forehead.

"Go on," he said, in a half-smothered tone.

The judge extended his hand and placed a parchment in the hands of

Esther.

"Read the accusation," he said, and in a voice at first low and faint,

but gradually growing stronger and deeper, Esther read, while a

death-like stillness prevailed:

"Gabriel Godlike is accused of the following offenses against man,

against society, against God:--

"As a man of genius, intrusted by the Almighty with the noblest, the

most exalted powers, and bound to use those powers for the good of his

race, he has, in the course of his whole life, prostituted those powers

to the degradation and oppression of his race.

"As a statesman, rivaling in intellect the three great names of the

nineteenth century, Clay, Calhoun and Webster, he has not, like

these great men, been governed by a high aim, an earnest-souled

sincerity. His intellect approaches theirs in powers, but as a man,

as a statesman, he has not exhibited their virtues. Wielding a vast

influence, and bound to use that influence in securing to the masses

such laws as will invest every man with the right to the full fruits

of his labor, and the possession of a home, he has lent his influence,

sold his intellect, mortgaged his official position, to those who

enslave labor in workshop and factory, defraud it in banks, and rob

the laborer--the freeman--of a piece of land which he may call by the

sacred title of home.

"As a lawyer, having a profound knowledge of the technicalities of

written law, and an intuitive knowledge of that great law of God, which

proclaims that all men are brothers, bound to each other by ties of

reciprocal love and duty, he has used his knowledge of written law

to gloss over and sanction the grossest wrongs; he has darkened and

distorted the great laws of God to suit any case of social tyranny, no

matter how damning, how revolting, which he has been called upon to

defend for hire.

"As a citizen, bound to illustrate in his life the purity of the

Christian, the integrity of the republican, he has never known the

affections of a wife, or children, but his private career has been one

long catalogue of the basest appetites, gratified at the expense of

every tie of truth and honor.

"In his long career, he has exhibited that saddest of all

spectacles:--a lawyer, with no sense of right or wrong, higher than

his fee; a statesman, regarding himself not as the representative of

the people, but as the feed and purchased lawyer of a class; a man of

god-like intellect, without faith in God, without love for his race."

Esther concluded; her face was radiant, but her eyes dimmed with tears.

"Gabriel Godlike, what say you to this accusation?" exclaimed the judge.

A sardonic smile agitated the lips of the statesman, but he made

no reply in words. At the same time, despite his attempt to meet

the accusation with a sneer, its words rung in his very soul, and

especially the closing clause, "_without faith in God, without love to

his race_."

Gabriel's head sank slowly on his breast, and his down-drawn brows hid

his eyes from the light. He was thinking of other years; of the promise

of his young manhood; of the dark realities of his maturer years. The

judge spoke again.

"Gabriel Godlike, you are silent. You have no reply. In your own soul

and before Heaven, you know that every word of the accusation is true.

You cannot deny it. Your own soul and conscience convict you."

He paused; again the mocking sneer crossed Gabriel's lips, but a crowd

of emotions were busy at his heart. The judge proceeded, in a measured

tone. Every word fell distinctly upon the statesman's unwilling ears:

"Gabriel Godlike, you may smile at the idea of being held accountable

to God and man, for the use which you have made of your talents in the

last forty years, but there will come an hour when History will pass

its judgment upon you; there will come an hour when God will demand of

you the intellect which he has intrusted to your care. That hour will

come. Then, what will be your answer to Almighty God? 'Lord, thou

didst intrust me with superior intellect, to be used for the good of my

brothers of the human family; and after a life of sixty years, I can

truly say, I have never once used that intellect for the elevation of

mankind, and have never once failed, when appetite or ambition tempted,

to squander it in the basest lusts.' What a record will this be for

history; what an answer to be rendered to Almighty God!

"Gabriel Godlike! Great men are placed upon earth, as the prophets

and apostles of the poor. It is their vocation to speak the wrongs

which the poor suffer, but are unable to tell; it is their mission to

find the deepest thought which God has implanted in the breast of the

age, and to carry that thought into action, or die. What has been the

thought struggling in the bosom of the last fifty years? A thought vast

as the providence of God, which, whether called by the name of Social

Progress, or Social Re-organization, or by whatsoever name, still looks

forward to the day when social misery will be annihilated; when the

civilization will no longer show itself only in the awful contrast of

the few, immersed in superfluous wealth,--of the many, immersed in

poverty, in crime, in despair; a day, when in truth, the gospel of the

New Testament will no longer be the hollow echo of the sounding-board

above the pulpit, but an every-day verity, carried with deeds along all

the ways of life, and manifested in the physical comfort as well as the

moral elevation of all men.

"Something like this has been the thought of the last fifty--yes, of

the last hundred years. It was the secret heart of our own Revolution.

It was the great truth, whose features you may read even beneath the

blood-red waves of the French Revolution. And in the nineteenth century

this thought has called into action legions of noble-hearted men, who

have earnestly endeavored to carry it into action. It has had its

confessors, its saints, its martyrs.

"Gabriel Godlike! In the course of your long career, what have you done

to aid the development of this thought? Alas! alas! Look back upon your

life! In all your career, not one brave blow for man--your brother--not

one, not one! As a lawyer, the hired vassal of any wealthy villain, or

class of villains; as a legislator, not a statesman, but always the

paid special pleader of heartless monopoly and godless capital; as a

man, your intellect always towers among the stars, while your moral

character sinks beneath the kennel's mud! Such has been your life;

such is the use to which you have bent your powers. Like the sublime

egotist, Napoleon Bonaparte, you regarded the world as a world without

a God, and mankind as the mere creatures of your pleasure and your

sport. If the poor wretch, who, driven mad by hunger, steals a loaf of

bread, is branded as a CRIMINAL, and adjudged to darkness and chains,

by what name, Gabriel Godlike, shall we call _you_? what judgment shall

_we_ pronounce upon your head?"

The judge arose, and with his face shaded from the light, and his

white hairs falling to his shoulders, he extended his hand toward the

CRIMINAL.

There was a blush of _shame_ upon Gabriel's downcast forehead; shame,

mingled with suppressed rage.

"Shall we adjudge you to the lash?" and the judge looked first to

Gabriel, then to the giant negro by his side.

Godlike raised his head; Esther shuddered as she beheld his look.

"The lash!" he echoed,--"No, by ----! The man does not live who dares

speak of such a thing."

"I live, and I speak of it," responded the judge, calmly. "You forget

that you are in my power; and, as you are well aware, (it is a maxim

upon which you have acted all your life,) 'MIGHT MAKES RIGHT.' And why

should you shudder at the mention of the lash? What is the torture, the

disgrace of the lash, compared with the torture and disgrace which your

deeds have inflicted upon thousands of your fellow men?"

Godlike uttered a frightful oath.--"You will drive me mad!" and he

ground his teeth in impotent rage. It was a pitiful condition for a

great statesman.

"No, no; the lash is too light a punishment for a criminal of your

magnitude. Prisoner, stand up and hear the sentence of the court!"

Gabriel had a powerful will, but the will which spoke in the voice of

that old man, his judge, was more powerful than his own. Reluctantly

he arose to his feet, his broad chest panting and heaving beneath its

scarlet attire.

"Unbind his arms." The masked attendants obeyed. Gabriel's bands were

free.

"Secure him, at the first sign of resistance or of disobedience."

The judge calmly proceeded--

"Gabriel Godlike, hear the sentence of the court. You will affix your

own proper signature to two documents, which will now be presented to

you. After which you are free."

Gabriel could not repress an ejaculation. The simplicity of the

sentence struck him with astonishment.