CHAPTER III.

RETRIBUTION.

It was a fierce and stormy night. The wind howled around the houses of

Redwood, and wherever a shutter had lost its fastening, it flapped to

and fro with a frequent and alarming sound. The rain, too, descended

in torrents, and flooded the streets of the village, while ever and

anon heavy peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning increased

the terror of the night. In the house of Farmer Ellis a few persons

were assembled to witness the bridal of the sexton of St. Hubert's.

The bridegroom was as one excited by wine, for there was a wild

radiance in his eyes and an unwonted smile upon his lips, and he

occasionally gave utterance to some jest, and when it failed of

producing the expected mirth, his own laugh sounded hollow and

strange. The bride, too, so pearly pale, in her white dress, with

white roses in her hair, seemed like the bride of Corinth in the

German tale. A few of the guests, huddled anxiously together,

whispered among themselves, "It is a churchyard bridal."

Still the cake and wine went round, and the strange laugh of the

bridegroom was more frequent. The night wore on, and the arrival of

the clergyman was prolonged far beyond the expected time. At length he

came, and the ceremony was about to take place, when the bride

suddenly sank in the arms of her companions. They raised her, and

applied the usual remedies resorted to in cases of fainting, but the

vital spark itself had fled.

In the depth of a stormy night, the sexton of St. Hubert's sought the

queen of the gypsies. He was mounted on an active horse, and

accompanied by the sheriff of the county and a few resolute men, well

mounted and armed to the teeth. As he approached the river which

bounded the gypsy camp upon one side, the sexton looked in vain for a

guiding light--no fires blazed upon the green, no hidden glare was

reflected in the mirror of the stream. Still he spurred on his horse,

and followed hard by his companions, gallantly forded the stream and

crossed the open meadows. The tents had all been struck, and no sound

was heard in that deserted place, except the rushing of the boisterous

wind and the tinkling of the raindrops as they fell upon the river.

The parties reined up their horses, and the sexton and the sheriff

held a brief conference together. While they were yet conversing, a

broad and brilliant blaze shot up from the centre of the forest,

illuminating a wide and well-trodden path which led directly to the

light. The first flash of radiance dazzled the eyes of the horsemen,

but when they became accustomed to the glare, they beheld distinctly

several wild forms lounging around the fire, evidently unconscious of

the approach of danger.

"Now is our time, my lads," said the sheriff, in a low tone. "Forward,

and we shall have them all."

Every rowel was instantly employed, and the party pushed forward at a

gallop. Bowing their heads to avoid the swaying branches, they bent

over their horses' necks in the intense ardor of pursuit. The sheriff

and the sexton rode side by side, and had nearly attained their

object, when their horses fell suddenly, and threw them to the ground

with violence. In fine, the whole party had stumbled upon pitfalls dug

for them, and not a horseman of the troop escaped an overthrow. While

they were rolling on the ground, entangled in the stirrups, and

receiving severe injuries from the struggling horses, a shrill cry

arose from the depth of the woods, and a dozen stout ruffians set upon

them, seized, and pinioned them. The sexton and the sheriff were

conducted by two of the gang to the presence of the gypsy queen, who

sat upon a rude form raised upon the trunk of a huge oak, and

sheltered by an ample awning of oiled cloth. The sheriff's followers

were borne away in another direction. The wild woman and her wilder

attendants were perfectly distinct in the ruddy firelight, though the

whole scene had, to the eyes of the victims, the appearance of a

vision of night.

"Well, sirs," said the queen, "you came to see us, and you have found

us. Have you not some message for us? You myrmidon of the law, have

you no greeting for the queen of the gypsies?"

The sheriff looked at the queen and then at her attendants. They were

fierce-looking, unshorn fellows, with butchers' knives stuck in their

rope girdles, and seemed but to await a nod from her tawny majesty to

employ their formidable weapons.

"Have you nothing for us?" asked the dark lady.

"Nothing," said the sheriff, faintly.

"Ho, ho!" laughed the wrinkled crone. "The man of law is forgetful.

You, _Dommerar_, search him, and see if he speaks the truth."

A sandy-haired little fellow advanced at the summons, and rifled the

pockets of the sheriff with a dexterity which proved him an adept in

the business. A teacher of music would have envied his fingering.

Having caused the pockets of the sheriff to disgorge, he thus, in the

canting language, enumerated their contents:--

"The _moabite's ribbin runs thin_, (the sheriff's cash runs low.) He

has no _mint_, (gold,) and only a _mopus_ or two."

"Fool!" said the queen, "has he no paper?"

"Ay, ay, missus, here's his _fiddle_," (writ,) was the answer.

"Give it me," cried the queen. "Here, you _patrico_, our eyes are bad.

Read this scrawl, and acquaint us with the contents."

The _patrico_, or hedge priest, a fellow in a rusty, black suit, with

a beard of three weeks' growth, bleared eyes, and a red, Bardolph

nose, took the writ, which he had more difficulty in reading than Tony

Lumpkin, when he received the letter of Hastings. At first, he held it

upside down, then reversed it, looking at it at arm's length, and then

gave it a closer scrutiny. He finally gave it as his opinion, that it

empowered the _queer-cuffin_ (so he termed the sheriff) to seize upon

the so called queen of the gypsies, accused of the crime of murder,

and also to apprehend her followers. When he had concluded, the old

crone snatched the writ from his hand, and, tearing it to pieces,

flung the fragments into the face of the sheriff.

"Take him away," said she, "and leave us alone with the sexton of St.

Hubert's. Guard him well, for we wish to show him how we administer

justice among us. We will be judge and jury, and our _upright man_

shall be the executioner."

She waved her tawny hand with the air of a princess dismissing her

courtiers, and her mandate was obeyed. She was left alone with the

sexton of St. Hubert's. Looking him steadily in the face, she said,--

"John Pembroke, I give you joy of your marriage."

"Wretched woman!" said the sexton, "you poisoned her. By your hand she

died."

"You are mistaken," answered the old woman, with a bitter smile. "She

is not dead, but sleepeth. You see the devil can quote Scripture. It

was my first intention to have poisoned her; but my second thoughts

were better. So, instead of the medicine you sought, I gave you a

powerful narcotic, which has thrown her into a deep sleep. She lies,

at this moment, you know, in the chapel of St. Hubert's. There are

flowers on her coffin, and there is a shroud around her. If I am not

very much mistaken, about this hour she awakes."

"And perishes! Fiend in human shape, how you have deceived me! At this

hour, remote from help, my Margaret is dying."

"She is not your Margaret, neither is she dying," said the crone.

"Listen to me. I sent a trusty messenger to him that Margaret

loves--to him who loves her fondly and faithfully--and if all things

have gone as well as I anticipate, by this time she is in his arms.

The draught she drank is harmless."

"Cursed deceiver!" cried the sexton, struggling frantically to free

himself from the ligatures which bound him. "You have done an accursed

deed. You have deprived me of my betrothed bride."

"Your betrothed bride!" said the queen of the gypsies. "Behold her!"

She waved her hand, and Myra stood before the sexton of St. Hubert's.

"There she stands," said the gypsy. "Have you forgotten that your

troth is plighted to her? The bride and the priest are ready. Man of

guilt and passion, wed her you may, wed her you must!"

"Never!" cried the sexton. "When I sought your lawless crew to indulge

my love of revelling and pleasure, the person of Myra lighted a fire

in my breast. But it was an unholy flame. I will never marry her. Let

her live--live to be branded with infamy and disgrace!"

"Ha!" cried the crone, rising from her seat. "Is it so? Speak, Myra!

child of my heart, is it so?"

The gypsy girl clasped her hands together, and hung her head in shame.

Her cheeks were suffused with crimson; then they became deadly pale,

and she sank lifeless on the ground.

"You have killed her!" shrieked the gypsy queen, "and dearly shall you

rue it."

She placed a whistle to her lips, and blew a shrill blast. But she

received a far different answer than she had anticipated; for one of

the sheriff's men had succeeded in escaping from the hands of the

gypsy crew, and galloped to the neighboring town, where a troop of

horse was quartered. The commanding officer instantly repaired to the

gypsy camp, where he arrived in time to apprehend the crew before

they had committed any act of violence. The sexton of St. Hubert's did

not long survive this night, and Myra became a maniac. The fate of the

lovers we shall next describe.

When the lover of Margaret received the message of the queen of the

gypsies, he repaired to the spot where his mistress lay, to all

appearance, in the arms of death. But life had not departed; and even

as he hung gazing over her, a faint color mounted to her cheek, and

her bosom began to heave beneath her white garment. He raised her in

his arms, bore her to the air, and she revived. When her senses were

fully restored, she consented to guard against another separation by

marrying her lover and savior. William had provided a humble

post-chaise to convey his bride far from the scene of her past perils

and temptations. They journeyed by slow stages to the north, and at

the close of a few days entered a romantic village. The lover

bridegroom pointed out a gray and noble old pile, the turrets of which

rose lofty above the waving trees of an ancient park. He asked if she

should like to visit it. She replied in the affirmative, and they

drove, unchallenged, through the gateway and along a noble avenue

shaded by huge oaks. When they reached the portals of the building,

the post-boy stopped the horses, dismounted, threw open the door of

the chaise, and let down the steps. William lifted his companion from

her seat in his arms.

"Margaret," said he, "look up. This is Woodley Castle, and you are

Lady Armitage."

JACK WITHERS.

Every body liked Jack Withers. He was a handsome, active young fellow

of five-and-twenty, of a good family, an orphan, who came into

possession of thirty thousand dollars when he came of age. In this age

of California gold, when fortunes are made by shovelling dust, and the

wonders of Aladdin's treasure house are realized by men of no capital

but pickaxes and muscles, thirty thousand dollars does not seem a

prodigious sum. Yet our great-grandfathers retired from business on

that amount, and were thought, at least, comfortably well off; and

even nowadays, thirty thousand dollars, judiciously managed, will keep

a man out of the poorhouse, and give him a clean shirt and a leg of

mutton for his lifetime. But poor Jack was not a judicious manager,

and a tandem team and champagne suppers, with a shooting-box and turf

speculations, soon made ducks and drakes of a little fortune. Thus at

twenty-five, our friend Jack was _minus_; or, in the elegant

phraseology of the day, "a gentleman at large with pockets to let."

When a man's riches have taken wings and _vamosed_, when all his old

uncles are used up, and he has no prospective legacy to fall back

upon, he is generally cut by the acquaintances of his prosperous days.

The memory of "what he used to was" is seldom cherished, and the

unhappy victim of prodigality discovers to his sorrow, that

"'Tis a very good world that we live in,

To lend, or to spend, or to give in;

But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own,

'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known."

Jack, however, was not destined to drink the cup of this bitter

experience. He was just as popular and just as much courted without a

penny in his pocket, as he was when he possessed the means to be

extravagant, when he

"Spread to the liberal air his silken sails,

And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales."

The secret of his prodigious popularity was his obliging disposition.

His time and talents--and he had plenty of the former, and no lack of

the latter--were always at the service of his friends; and though the

idlest dog in the world when his own affairs were in question, in the

cause of his friends he was the busiest man alive. Thus he fairly won

his dinners, his rides, his drives, and his opera tickets--they were

trifling commissions on his benevolent transactions.

"Jack," one fellow would say, "my horse is too confoundedly high

strung, and only half broke. He threw me yesterday."

"I'll ride him for you, Bill," would be the ready reply; "give me your

spurs, and I'll give him a lesson."

And away he would go, without a thought of his neck, to mount a

restive rascal that had half killed the rough rider of a cavalry

regiment.

"Jack," another would say, "I've got an awkward affair on hand with

Lieutenant ----; he fancies I've insulted him, and has thrown out dark

hints about coffee and pistols."

"Make yourself perfectly easy, my boy; I'll bring him to reason or

fight him myself."

So Jack had his hands full of business. Well, one dreary, desolate

afternoon in March, when the barbs of all the vanes in the city were

looking pertinaciously eastward, and people were shivering over

anthracite grates, Jack Withers "might have been seen," as James would

say, seated in the little back parlor of the coffee room in School

Street, sipping Mocha with his particular friend Bill Bliffins, who

had an especial claim upon his kindness, from the fact that he had

already extricated Bill from scrapes innumerable.

Mocha is a great prompter of social and kindly feelings, and prompts,

in _tete-a-tetes_, to that unreserved confidence on one part, and that

obliging interest on the other, which unite two congenial and kindred

spirits in adamantine bonds.

"Jack," said Bill, smiting the marble table emphatically, "you are my

best friend."

"Pooh, pooh! you flatter me," said Jack, blushing like a peony; "I've

never done any thing for you."

"Yes, you have, and you know it," persisted Bliffins. "Didn't you

fight Lieutenant Jenkins, of the Salamander, when I ought to have

fought him myself? Haven't you endorsed my notes when nobody else

would back my paper?"

"I'll do it again, my boy," said Jack, with a gush of enthusiastic

feeling.

"Ahem! your name on short or long paper isn't exactly what it used to

be," said Bill, rather unfeelingly, perhaps.

"True, true," returned Jack, in a more subdued tone; "I haven't got

many friends left in the synagogues."

"But what you have done, Jack," continued Bliffins, with enthusiasm,

"emboldens me to trespass yet further on your patience."

"With all my heart," said Jack; and there was no reservation implied

in the hearty tone in which the words were uttered.

"Then listen to my story, as the postilion of Longjumeau sings. Hear

me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear."

"I'll be mute as the codfish in the House of Representatives."

"Well, then," said Bill, in a solemn tone, "I'm dead broke."

"Dead broke?"

"Yes; I'm running on my last hundred."

"Impossible!"

"True, though, for all that. Yet my circumstances are not so

desperate, either. There's a vacant clerkship in the secretary of

state's office; and the governor has been sounded, and I think he

might be disposed to give it to me."

"Go to him at once, then, my dear boy. If he wants any reference, send

him to me. I'll endorse your character, as I used to your paper when

my name was worth something on 'change. Go to him at once."

"It's easy to say it, Jack; but the fact is, that I have such a

confounded hesitating address that I fear I should make an unfavorable

impression, and ruin my cause; whereas, if a plausible, voluble fellow

like yourself could get his ear and plead for me, my appointment would

be certain. Now will you----"

"Call on the governor? With all my heart--consider the thing settled."

"That's not all; you must be my advocate in another quarter. I'm over

head and ears in love with Juliet Trevor--Trapp & Trevor--W. I. Goods,

wholesale. You know the firm?"

"Like a book."

"I want you to see the girl and the old people; I haven't confidence

to propose in person. You can do it for me?"

"With all my heart. I give you joy of the clerkship and the

girl--they're yours."

"I'm eternally obliged, Jack."

"Not the least, my boy--always ready to serve my friends. By the way,

have you got any money about your clothes? I invited you to take

coffee, but I forgot my purse in my other trousers--no change, you

know."

"There, get this V changed," said Bliffins, handing him a bank note.

Jack took the note and walked up to the counter.

"Coffee and pie for two, my dear" said he to the attendant. "It's all

right--you know me--pay next time--Withers and friend. Come, Bill,

I've fixed it."

"But the change!" said Bill.

"Never mind the change--morrow do as well. By, by,--_au revoir_."

"Remember the governor!"

"All right, my boy."

"And Juliet!"

"Make yourself easy."

So they parted. The next day, Jack sent in his card to the governor at

the Adams House, and followed the pasteboard before the message could

be returned. The governor received his visitor with his usual

urbanity.

"Good quarters, governor!" said Jack, looking round him as he dropped

into a rocking chair, and tapped his boot with his walking stick.

"Chief magistrate of the commonwealth--well lodged--people pay--all

right."

The governor was much amused at the coolness of his guest, and waited

patiently to learn his business. He was not kept long in suspense.

"Governor," said Jack, "I come to solicit your favor not on my behalf,

but in the cause of friendship--sacred friendship--holy bond of two

congenial hearts, &c.--but you know all that. My friend, sir, William

Bliffins--unfortunate young man--reduced in circumstances--good

family--good blood--grandfather in the revolution--soil of Bunker Hill

irrigated with the blood of Bliffins--but you know all that--run

through his fortune--on the town--not a penny--hard case."

"Do you solicit charity, sir, for your friend?"

"Not exactly--official favor--vacant clerkship--secretary's

office--make him comfortable--but you know all that."

"Really, sir, you run on at such a rate----"

"Way I've got--few leading points all you want--time precious--money

(old saw)--Bliffins--clerkship--don't you take?"

"I think I recollect the name, now. But I must inquire into the

character of the applicant. How did he lose his fortune?"

"Unbounded benevolence--heart like an ox--bigger--endorsing notes for

friends--founding hospitals for indigent Africans--temperance

movement--philanthropy expensive--but you know all that."

"The office in question requires a good penman. Can your friend write

well?"

"Splendid hand--copperplate--_currente calamo_--shine in your eyes."

"Have you a specimen of his penmanship?"

"Cords at home--some in pocket. Here you have it! no, that's my

washerwoman's bill. Ah, here it is!" and Jack pulled out a crumpled

note, and placed it before the governor.

The governor scanned the document curiously, and with great difficulty

deciphered the following words, which he read silently:--

"Dear Jack,--Fashion has been beaten, and I lost on the mare. I shall

back Tom Hyer to the extent of my pile. He is training finely. Bricks

has a couple of Santa Anna's game cocks for me, on board the Raritan,

at Lewis's wharf. Can you run down and get 'em from the steward? Yrs,

&c."

The governor smiled as he handed back the note, but made no remark.

"Where can I communicate with you, sir?" he asked.

"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street. I'll write my address."

So Jack wrote his address card, (by the way, he wrote a splendid

hand,) and took his leave of the governor.

From the Adams House he posted to Louisburg Square, where the Trevors

were living in great style. Slightly acquainted with Miss Trevor, he

found no difficulty in being admitted to her presence. After rattling

over a few commonplace topics, he came to the object of his mission.

"Have you seen Bliffins lately?"

"Not very," replied the fair one, languidly.

"Dying, ma'am, dying."

"Is it possible? What's the matter, sir?"

"Love--desperation--patience on a monument couldn't sit there

forever--heart ache--only one thing to save him."

"Indeed! and what is that?"

"He loves you, madam, passionately, devotedly, enormously--Petrarch,

Abelard, lukewarm lovers in comparison. Throws himself at your

feet--save him!--marry him quick! or you'll lose him!--say yes."

"Sir, my father will communicate with you," said the lady, rising to

terminate the interview.

"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street," said Jack, and bowed himself

away.

The next day Jack and Bill were again seated together in a small room

at the Dog and Thistle, waiting the result of the obliging operations

of the former. In a few moments a waiter brought in a note,

superscribed John Withers, Esq. Jack tore it open, and read as

follows:--

"Sir,--In answer to your application yesterday, I am sorry

to return you an unfavorable reply; but the chirography of

the person you recommended, to say nothing of other

considerations, unfits him for the vacancy in question.

Having made inquiries with regard to yourself, and finding

that you are in circumstances which might render employment

acceptable, while your conduct proves that you have

sincerely repented of the follies of your early years, I

have concluded to request your acceptance of the office

yourself. If you accept the offer, please report yourself

to-morrow.

"Yours, respectfully,

---- ----,

"Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"You're an impostor!" shouted Bliffins. "Is this your friendship?"

"I can't help it," said Jack, ruefully. "I'm innocent--I did the best

I could for you."

"How did he know any thing about my penmanship?"

"I showed him this note," said the unhappy Jack, producing the

document.

"That note? You've ruined me! Do you know what it was about?"

"I'd forgotten."

"Why, it was all about horseracing, pugilism, and cock fighting, you

jackass!"

"Letter for Mr. Bliffins!" said the waiter, entering with another

epistle. Bliffins read it aloud.

"Mr. William Bliffins.

"Sir: In answer to application of your friend, yesterday,

for daughter's hand, have to reply for daughter, and say

that the honor is respectfully declined. Had you obtained

the office you applied for, might have treated with you.

Daughter requests me to say that she could not have done so

in any case.

"Your ob't servant,

J. TREVOR."

"P.S. Please hand the enclosed to Mr. Withers."

The "enclosed" was an invitation to a grand ball given by the Trevors

on the ensuing night.

After overwhelming his friend with anathemas, Bliffins rushed wildly

from the Dog and Thistle, and enlisted in the second dragoons.

Jack Withers, who had never before looked out for number one, now

became so "obliging" as to take care of that neglected personage. He

became a praiseworthy clerk, and a steady man of business. He went to

the ball and polked himself into the good graces of Miss Juliet

Trevor. The old gentleman and lady smiled upon their loves, and in

due time he was united to the object of his affections, securing

thereby a handsome and amiable wife, and an independent fortune, which

she insisted on settling upon her husband on the wedding day. There is

no fear of Jack's relapsing into his old habits of extravagance; and

while he is still as popular as ever, he never neglects his own

affairs for those of other people.

THE SILVER HAMMER.

The sun was sinking in the west, and gilding with its slant beams a

pastoral landscape, as a young soldier, weary and footsore, slowly

toiled along a lonely road that ran parallel with the course of the

bright and winding Seine. A dusty foraging cap rested on his dark

locks, and his youthful form bent beneath the weight of a well-filled

knapsack. Pierre Lacour had served with honor in that glorious little

band of heroes, which, under the leadership of the youthful Bonaparte,

had crossed the snow-clad Alps, and fallen like an avalanche upon the

plains of Lombardy, sweeping before it the veteran troops of Austria,

and astonishing all Europe by unparalleled audacity and unexampled

success. Pierre had marched farther on that day than he had ever done

while following the colors of his regiment--but he was on his way

home, and he longed to see his mother, his fair young sister Maria,

and a lovely maiden, named Estelle, dearer to his heart than all

beside. They had news of his coming,--at least, Maria and his mother

had,--and he had sent them in advance, by a sure hand, a large amount

of money, his share of the spoils of battle honorably won--enough, in

short, to give a dowry to his sister, and enable him to demand the

reward of all his toils and dangers--the hand of his betrothed.

His heart beat quick as he climbed the last vine-clad hill which

separated him from his native valley. A few steps more would bring him

to the summit, whence his eye would rest on the neat whitewashed

cottage, with its surrounding palings, and trim garden; and there,

perhaps, at the rustic gate, he should see the well-known figures of

his mother and sister. Far as he had travelled, he sprang up the

ascent with a buoyant step, and soon gained the eminence. The cottage

lay full in view, but though it was the usual hour for preparing the

evening meal, no blue smoke wreath curled upward from the chimney. A

vague presentiment of evil weighed upon his heart. Hastening to dispel

the dark and chilling fears that came thick upon him, he hurried down

the slope, and soon passed through the garden and stood within the

cottage. He called aloud--no voice responded to his cry. He rushed

into the little room, which served at once for kitchen and parlor. It

was empty--no fire burned upon the hearth. The humble furniture was in

strange disarray. The casement, which looked out upon the garden was

shattered. The walls and floor were charred and blackened with smoke,

as if the house had taken fire and been saved with difficulty. Pierre

sprang up stairs. In neither of the chambers could he find the loved

ones whom he sought--only the same scene of confusion and desolation.

Turning in dismay from the spectacle, he rushed out of the cottage to

make his way to the nearest neighbors, and inquire into this appalling

mystery. As he hurried along--his brain whirling, his footsteps

uncertain and unsteady--he stumbled against an aged man of venerable

appearance, who was coming in the opposite direction. The young

soldier halted, and touching his cap, begged pardon for his

involuntary rudeness.

"My poor Pierre," said the old man, "I know too well the cause of your

forgetfulness."

The soldier looked up and recognized the familiar and benevolent

features of the good priest of the village, his old tutor and pastor.

"Father," he said, pointing to the cottage, "you have been there--you

know all--tell me--where are they?"

The old man's eyes filled with tears, as he shook his head, and laid

his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.

"Pierre," said he, "you have read 'whom the Lord loveth he

chasteneth?'"

The soldier bowed his head.

"Pierre," exclaimed the good priest, "let us sit down on this bank.

You are a good and brave boy. You can face danger, and I have sought

to furnish you weapons to wage war against sorrow and trial."

"You have been a father to me, sir," replied the young soldier,

complying with the invitation of his pastor, and taking a seat beside

him. "I will endeavor to listen calmly to all you have to communicate.

Where are my mother and sister?"

"Pierre," said the old man, "arm yourself with all your fortitude. You

will never see your mother more till you meet her in that happier

world, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at

rest."

Pierre groaned deeply, and covering his face with his hands, rocked

his body to and fro as he burst into an agony of tears. The priest

sought not to interrupt him, but turned away his own weeping

countenance, for the anguish of the youth was too painful to

contemplate.

At last the poor soldier looked up and spoke again: "What of my poor

sister?"

"I know nothing," replied the priest; "she is gone whither, none can

tell. A great crime has been committed. By whom, none knows, save God

and the perpetrator thereof. You sent home a large sum of money to

your mother. She was so overjoyed at your good fortune, that she made

no secret of its reception, though I cautioned her against speaking of

it. A fortnight ago, the village was alarmed by the cry of fire. Your

cottage was seen to be in flames. The neighbors hastened thither and

extinguished the blaze. In the smoke and confusion it was not

perceived at first that murder, as well as incendiarism, had done its

foul work." The priest paused, overcome with agitation.

"On! on!" shouted Pierre, "I can bear it all now!"

"Your poor mother was the victim," continued the priest; "she lay on

the hearthstone dead and bleeding. Her bureau had been broken open and

rifled of its contents."

"My sister! my sister!" cried the soldier.

"She was gone. The whole surrounding country was searched, but nothing

was discovered."

"Maria! Maria! could gold have tempted _you_? No! no!--dog that I am,

to suspect you! Misery has driven me mad!" cried the soldier, dashing

his hand against his forehead.

"The whole dreadful crime," said the old priest, "is shrouded in a

mystery as appalling as death itself. But God does not permit such

deeds to slumber undetected or unavenged. Sooner or later they are

brought to light."

"May I prove the instrument of detection!" said the soldier. "Some of

the coins that I sent my poor murdered mother were marked--I could

recognize them again. Father, you shall take me to my mother's grave.

One prayer there--one word with Estelle--and then I will go to Paris;

it is the resort of every criminal, and thence it sends forth its

crime-blackened ruffians to desecrate this fair earth with horror.

Come, father, come--my mother's grave--lead me there at once!"

* * * * *

Years passed away. Save by two or three persons, the crime which had

desecrated the hearthstone of a humble village home was forgotten in

those great historical events, of which Europe and France were then

the theatres. In those days of bloodshed and battle, of victory and

triumph, Pierre Lacour, who had commenced his military career as a

brave young soldier, might have risen to the highest honors, had he

followed the victorious eagles of his emperor. Why might not he rise

as well as Murat, Ney, Lannes, or a hundred others? The epaulets of a

colonel, nay, the baton of a marshal of France, were prizes within the

reach of the lowliest, provided he had the head to plan and the heart

to execute daring and chivalric deeds. But his heart no longer bounded

like a war horse to the charge of the trumpet and the roll of the

drum. He lived for one purpose--to discover the assassin of his mother

and the sister, of whom nothing had been heard since the dreadful

night of murder and conflagration. To facilitate his purposes, he had

procured himself to be enrolled in the unrivalled police force of

Fouche. That wily minister had no more able assistant under his

command, and none in that fraternity (of which many were miscreants,

who had purchased impunity for crime by selling the lives and

liberties of former accomplices and comrades) who could compare with

him for purity of life and elevation of motive. To punish evil for the

sake of society, was the aim of the young police officer. None more

untiring or intelligent than he in ferreting out the perpetrators of

deeds of violence. In the criminals whose arrest he effected, and

whose conviction he secured, he expected, constantly, to find some

cognizant of the offence which had thrown so black a shadow over his

life. He read with eager avidity the dying confessions of the

condemned. He caught eagerly every syllable that fell from the lips of

men, who, standing on the brink of eternity, seemed to be impressed

with the necessity of revealing truth. But for years his expectations

were baffled.

At last, all Paris was thrown into commotion by the murder of a

Colonel Belleville, an officer who had served with distinction in the

grand army, and who was found dead, one morning, in a room at house

number 96 Rue La Harpe. The only mark of violence discovered by the

surgeons was a dark, purple spot, about the size of a five-franc

piece, on the left temple. The police were apprised that, on the

morning of the day before, a slight young man, with fair hair and

polished address, giving his name as Adolph Belmont, had hired the

room at number 96 Rue La Harpe, and paid a week's rent in advance. It

further appeared that, in the evening, just after the close of the

performances at the opera, this young man had come home in company

with an officer of the army. After the lapse of about an hour, the

young man, Belmont, left the house, telling the porter he should

return in a few minutes. But he never reappeared. About ten o'clock in

the morning, the porter went up to his room, and found the door

locked. He knocked and called, without receiving any answer. Looking

through the keyhole, he saw the feet and legs of a man, in military

boots and pantaloons, lying on the floor. Much alarmed and disturbed,

he sought out a commissary of police, and that functionary, breaking

open the door, discovered the body of Colonel Belleville. This tragedy

excited an unusual sensation. Even the emperor heard of it, and, from

his private purse provided a large sum of money to be paid as a reward

to the discoverer of the perpetrator of this fearful crime.

Not many days after this occurrence, and while it yet remained

shrouded in mystery, another murder roused the excitable population of

Paris to a frenzy of anxiety and horror. An army commissary, named

Captain Eugene Descartes, was found dead in his lodgings, in the Rue

Richelieu, with the same fatal purple mark on the left temple.

Yet a third murder was perpetrated in the Boulevard des Italiens. A

banker, named Monval, was, in this instance, the victim. His left

temple bore the fatal discoloration of the size of a five-franc piece;

but, although he had a large sum of money on his person, and wore a

costly watch and many valuable trinkets, and though articles of high

price abounded in his sumptuously-furnished apartment, not an article,

as his steward testified, was missing.

On the morning of the announcement of this last crime in the Moniteur,

the minister of police received a summons from the emperor to attend

him. He found him in his private cabinet, pacing to and fro in high

excitement. His face was more colorless than ever, except that an

angry hectic spot burned upon each cheek. As the minister entered, the

emperor turned upon him, and exclaimed,--

"Fouche, what is the meaning of all this? Is this Paris, and are we

living in the nineteenth century? It appears that there is no security

for life in our capital. Mr. Fouche, if such crimes can be committed

with impunity, there is an end of all things; and if you cannot ferret

out the perpetrators of such atrocities as these, it is time for you

to vacate your position. I must appoint a new minister of police."

"Sire," replied the minister, "how much time will you give me to

discover the assassin?"

"One week," replied the emperor.

"I thank your majesty," replied the minister, bowing. "In one week,

you shall have the assassin's head, or my resignation."

"Good," said the emperor; "and to stimulate the activity of your

people, I hereby authorize you to offer a reward of twenty thousand

francs, for the detection of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue

Richelieu, and the Boulevard, if it prove, as I imagine, that one

individual perpetrated these crimes, or five thousand francs each, if

there were three criminals. Good day, Mr. Fouche; let me have a report

of your doings without delay."

The secret of Mr. Fouche's confident promise to detect the assassin

was the reliance he placed in the activity, daring, and intelligence

of Pierre Lacour. He sent for him, and related his conversation with

the emperor, enlarging on the munificent reward promised by Napoleon.

"I am poor," said Lacour, "but higher motives than hopes of reward

stimulate me to perform this duty. Yet, should I be successful, a sum

of money like this would enable me to wed one, who, though I

voluntarily offered to release her from her engagement has loved me as

well in my misfortunes as in happier times. In one week, therefore,

Mr. Fouche, I will enable you to redeem your pledge to the emperor."

Four days passed away, and yet the minister of police heard nothing

from Lacour. But the young man had not been inactive; and once or

twice he had obtained, what he considered, traces of the person

calling himself Belmont, the supposed assassin of the Rue la Harpe,

and, by presumption, of the other murders; but these traces led to no

result.

Whether in search of diversion, or that a vague hope whispered to him

that he might obtain some intelligence by so doing, Lacour, on the

fifth night after his interview with the minister, went to a masked

ball at the grand opera house, in the costume of an officer of the

Fusilier Guard, which chance led him to select. Weary of the noise and

confusion, sad and discouraged, he had withdrawn from the crowded

circle of dancers, when some one touched him on the shoulder.

"Captain Lassalle," said a sweet musical voice, "you are known, though

the uniform you wear is not that of your own corps."

Lacour turned with the intention of correcting the mistake, when a

secret impulse restrained the disavowal. The person who addressed him

was a slight young man, fashionably dressed, with no other disguise

than a half-mask of black velvet, which did not conceal his light

hair.

"I perceive you know me," said Lacour, favoring the mistake; "though

you have the advantage of me. I cannot possibly conjecture whom I am

addressing."

The masked laughed lightly.

"Perhaps it would be of no use for me to unmask," was the reply; "but

if I tell you I have something of importance to communicate to

you--something in reference to your application to the emperor for

preferment, you may be disposed to listen to me."

"With all my heart."

"I see you are tired of this noisy scene," said the mask, "and so in

faith am I. Besides, this is no place to talk of business. What say

you to a moonlight walk to my lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre? There

we can discuss our affairs over a glass of champagne."

"I will willingly accompany you," said Lacour, "if you will give me a

few minutes to speak to a friend, with whom I had a previous

appointment."

"Make haste, then," said the mask; "you will find me here for fifteen

minutes."

Lacour hastened to the nearest post, and made himself known to the

commandant.

"Quick!" said he, "I want a sergeant and a dozen _gens d'armes_. In

fifteen minutes I shall leave the opera house, in company with a young

man, for the Rue Montmartre. Let the squad follow us without appearing

to do so. Keep in the shadow of the houses. We shall enter a house. As

soon as the door has closed, demand instant admittance of the porter.

Let the sergeant follow hard upon my heels, and wait outside the door

of whatever room I enter. At a call from me, let him be ready to burst

in and secure the person with whom I am in company."

As soon as he had given these directions, the police officer hastened

back to the opera house, where the mask was still awaiting him. Arm in

arm they left the hall, and chatting familiarly, entered the Rue

Montmartre, and soon arrived at an old house of seven stories, to

which they were admitted by the porter. Lacour's heart beat as he

accompanied his guide, in the dark, up three pairs of stairs--but

before he had reached the head of the third flight, he heard the

street door open and shut below, and knew that the sergeant had obeyed

his directions, and that help was at hand in case his suspicions

proved true.

The mask opened the door of a room, and ushered in his guest. It was a

small, boudoir-like apartment, and exquisitely furnished. Silken

hangings fell over gold arrows, from the ceiling to the floor.

Tapestry carpets, soft as velvet, covered the floor. Rich ottomans,

superb mirrors, marble tables, and pictures, were crowded together. A

soft light was diffused through the apartment by an alabaster

shade-lamp. An intoxicating perfume loaded the atmosphere, and even

oppressed the senses. Lacour, as he sank upon the sofa, felt overcome

by a strange languor. The mask sat close beside him.

"Captain," said the mask, in a musical, insinuating voice, "have you

ever loved?"

"Before I answer this question," replied Lacour, "I must first know

what prompts you thus to catechize me."

"Because," replied the unknown, "I have deceived you--because I am a

woman--one who has long known and loved you, till an uncontrollable

desire to make this confession has compelled her to a step that you

will blame, and, perhaps, despise her for."

Lacour was puzzled, and remained silent for a few moments.

"I see," said the mask, with a sigh, "you despise me for my very

boldness. Yet, I am a lady of rank and reputation, and my affection

for you is as pure as that of maiden can be."

"Fair lady," said Lacour, "if such you be indeed, you must permit me

to request you to remove that envious mask."

"It may not be," replied the stranger, with a laugh. "Ask that, or

presume to remove this shield, and I vanish like a fairy or a phantom.

But if you promise to be very obedient, I may give you hopes of

disclosing my face--perhaps my name--at our next interview. But in

reward for your submission to my behest, I will allow you, like a

benignant sovereign, to do homage to my ungloved hand."

She withdrew her kid glove, and presented, playfully, a hand so white,

so delicately veined, and small, that Lacour could no longer doubt

that he was addressing a lady. He raised the hand respectfully to his

lips. But he felt now that his suspicions were groundless, and that he

did wrong in deceiving a person, who, however romantic and

unjustifiable her behavior might seem, was still one entitled to

respect and honor. But as he was framing an apology for taking

advantage of her mistaking him, the stranger suddenly sprang upon him

like a tigress. The delicate hand he had just kissed now compressed

his throat like an iron vice; the other suddenly brandished in the air

a small _silver hammer_, while a fierce voice hissed in his ear,

"Lassalle! your hour has come! Belleville, Descartes, and Monval, have

gone before you to answer for their crimes. You are the fourth, and

last. Die, villain!"

But Lacour struggled free, and shouted for help. The door fell with a

crash; the soldiers poured in, and the female assassin was secured and

disarmed. Eager to unravel the mystery, the police officer tore the

mask from the face of the unknown, and recognized in the wild and

inflamed features of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue

Richelieu, and the Boulevard des Italiens, his sister, Maria Lacour!

* * * * *

But Maria Lacour died not on the scaffold. She was saved from that

doom by unquestionable proofs of insanity. Her sad story was learned

afterwards from various sources, and corroborated, in the most

important particulars, by Captain Lassalle, who was arrested for a

criminal offence shortly after the above incident, and made a full

confession of his guilt. It appeared, then, that the house of the

widow Lacour, a short time before the opening of our story, had been

broken into by four villains, named Belleville, Descartes, Monval, and

Lassalle. They were all men of bad habits, and urgently necessitous,

but yet of decent education and family. Hearing a noise in the

kitchen, Maria descended only in time to witness the death pangs of

the mother. The three first-named ruffians, demons who had murdered to

rob, wished to destroy this witness of their guilt, but the fourth

interceded, and her life was spared. But the horror of the deed

overthrew her reason. She fled from the house that night a maniac;

whither she wandered, how she was cared for, for a long time was and

must ever remain a mystery. She finally, it seems, became in a degree

tranquillized, found her way to Paris, and there she supported herself

by her extraordinary skill as an embroideress.

But it was conjectured that her memory of early events had gone. The

casual sight of one of the assassins, all of whom had prospered and

risen in the world, revived the recollection of that one fearful night

of horror, and with it came to her disordered brain the thirst of

vengeance. It did not appear that for a moment she had dreamed of

appealing to the interposition of the law. To execute a summary

vengeance, personally, was her terrible resolve. With a cunning that

often supplies the loss of reason with the insane, she contrived

snares, into which three of the assassins fell, and, with the singular

implement her fancy had suggested, was the means of their death.

Chance led to the failure of her plan for punishing the last of the

assassins, Lassalle, and to her discovery by her brother.

Immediately after her arrest and examination, on proof of the

condition of her mind, she was conveyed to a private asylum, and

carefully attended to. Fortunately, her madness here assumed a happier

phase. She took great pleasure in seeing her brother, and appeared to

have forgotten that her mother was no more, asking him every day how

soon their mother would come and take her back to the country. But the

trials she had undergone had undermined her health. She sank very

rapidly, and soon breathed her last.

Lacour only remained long enough in the service of the police to

effect the arrest, and witness the condemnation of Lassalle, the last

of the four assassins, who escaped the silver hammer of the maniac

girl, to die by the hand of the executioner.

The sorrows he had experienced would have blighted the heart and

sapped the life of Pierre Lacour, but for the love of one who had

proved true to him through all his trials. Some months after the death

of his sister, he married his faithful Estelle, and retired to a small

and well-stocked farm, for which he was indebted to the generosity of

the emperor; and he lived long enough, if not to forget his sorrows,

at least to find consolation in the bosom of his family.

THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

It was a cold winter evening. The chill blast came sweeping from the

chain of hills that guard our city on the north, laden with the cold

breath of a thousand leagues of ice and snow. There was a sharp, polar

glitter in the myriad stars that wheeled on their appointed course

through the dark blue heaven, in whose expanse no single cloud was

visible. Howling through the icy streets came the strong, wild north

wind, tearing in its fierce frenzy the sailcloth awnings into tatters,

swinging the public-house signs, and shaking the window shutters, like

a bold burglar bent on the perpetration of crime. Then onward, onward

it sped over the dark steel-colored bay, and out to the wild, wide,

open sea, to do battle with the sails of the stanch barks that were

struggling towards a haven.

But within, the good people of Boston were stoutly waging battle

against the common enemy on this bitter Christmas eve. In some of the

old-fashioned houses at the North End, inhabited by old-fashioned

people, the ruddy light that streamed through the parlor windows on

the street announced that huge fires of oak and hickory were blazing

on the ample hearths. But in far the greater number of dwellings, the

less genial, but more powerful anthracite was contending with the

wintry elements.

In an upper room of an old, crazy, wooden house, a poor woman, thinly

clad, sat sewing beside a rusty, sheet-iron stove, poorly supplied

with chips. She had been once eminently handsome, and but for the

wanness and hollowness of her face, would have appeared so still.

Two little boys, of eight and nine years of age, were warming

themselves, or seeking to warm themselves, at the stove, before

retiring to their little bed in a small room adjoining.

"Isn't this nice, mother?" said the younger, a bright, black-eyed boy.

"Didn't I get a nice lot of chips to-day?"

"Yes, dearest, you are always a good and industrious boy," said the

mother, snatching a moment from her work to imprint a kiss upon his

forehead.

"Poor pa' will have a nice fire to warm him when he comes home," said

the elder boy.

At this allusion to the child's father, the mother burst into tears.

The countenances of both the children fell. They knew too well the

cause of their mother's bitter sorrow--the same cause had blighted

their own young hearts and clouded their innocent lives--their father

was a drunkard! Hence it was that, bright and intelligent as they

were, they could not go to school--they were too ragged for that--and

their time was required on the wharves to pick up fuel and such scraps

of provision as are scattered from the sheaves of the prosperous and

prodigal. For this reason, too, the mother had carefully forborne to

remind the children that this was Christmas eve. But they knew it too

well, and they contrasted its gloominess and sorrow with the

well-remembered anniversaries when this was a season of delight--the

eve of promised pleasures, of feasts, of dances, and of presents. With

this thought in their hearts they silently kissed their mother, and

retired to their little bed, committing themselves to "Our Father who

art in heaven," while the poor mother toiled on, listening with dread

for the returning footsteps of her husband.

The husband and father, whose return was thus dreaded, had worked late

at night in the shop of the carpenter who had given him temporary

employment, and who was to pay him this evening. Five or six dollars

were coming to him, more than he had earned honestly for a long while,

and his hand shook with eagerness as his employer counted out his

wages. As he put on his hat to leave the shop, he observed his

fellow-workmen, who were all sober and steady men, eying him with sad,

inquiring looks; he almost ran out of the shop.

"I know what they mean," he said to himself. "But what is it to them

how I spend my money--the prying busy-bodies! I'm not a slave--I have

a right to do what I please with my own. Whew! how cutting the wind

is! A glass or two of hot whiskey toddy will be just the thing!"

Without one thought of his toiling wife and neglected children, the

poor, infatuated man hastened towards a grocery with the intention of

slaking his morbid thirst. At the moment his foot was on the

threshold, out from the belfry of Christ Church, ringing clear in the

frosty air, streamed a tide of sweet and solemn music. Simple, yet

touching, was the melody of those sacred bells, chiming forth the

advent of the blessed Christmas time. And as the song of the bells

fell upon his ear, it awakened in the drunkard a thousand memories of

happier, because better days. The comfortable dwelling, the quiet,

neat parlor, with its Christmas dressings, the sweet face of his wife,

the merry laugh of his bright-eyed children--all flashed back vividly

upon his mind. He recked not of the bitter blast--he forgot his late

purpose--he could wish those sweet bells to play on forever. But they

ceased.

"It was a voice from heaven!" said the man, as the tears rolled down

his cheeks. "Surely God has blessed those Christ Church chimes. I'll

never more drink one drop. This money shall go to my family, every

cent of it. It is not too late yet to buy provision for to-morrow, and

some comfortable things for the children."

It was late that night when the watching wife heard the step of her

husband on the staircase. It was as slow and heavy as usual; but how

relieved, how astonished, how grateful she felt, when the door opened,

and he came in, happy, sober, bearing a huge basket filled with

provisions, and threw down a parcel containing stockings, comforters,

and mittens for the children, not forgetting some simple Christmas

wreaths, and some of those condiments which children love.

The next day was a happy one indeed for the mother and the little

boys--a merry Christmas that reminded them of old times, and gave them

assurance of a happy future. May we not hope that the effect we have

attributed to the Christ Church chimes is not a solitary instance of

the power of music?

THE POLISH SLAVE.

Gayly opened the bright summer morning on the gray feudal turrets of

Castle Tekeli, the residence of the old Count Alexis Tekeli, that

crowned a rocky eminence, and was embosomed in the deep secular

forests of Lithuania. The court yard was a scene of joyous noise and

gay confusion; for the whole household was mustering for the chase.

Half a dozen horses, gaily caparisoned, were neighing, snorting, and

pawing the ground with hot impatience; a pack of stanch hounds, with

difficulty restrained by the huntsmen, mingled their voices with the

neighing of the steeds, while the slaves and relatives of the family

were all busy in preparation for the day's sport.

Count Alexis was the first in the saddle; aged, but hale and vigorous,

he was alert and active as a young man of five-and-twenty.

"Where are my daughters?" he exclaimed, impatiently, as he drew on his

buff gantlets. "The sun is mounting apace, and we should not lose the

best portion of the day."

As if in reply to his question, a tall, dark-haired girl, of elegant

figure and stately bearing, appeared by his side, and with the

assistance of a groom, mounted her prancing gray palfrey.

"This is well, Anna," said the count. "But where is Eudocia? She must

not keep us waiting."

"Eudocia declines to be of our party, father," replied the girl.

"Pshaw!" said the old man; "she will never have your color in her

cheeks, if she persist in moping in her chamber, reading old legends

and missals, and the rhymes of worthless minnesingers. But let her go;

I have one daughter who can live with the hunt, and see the boar at

bay without flinching. Sound, bugle, and forward!"

Amid the ringing of silver curb chains, the baying of hounds, and the

enlivening notes of the bugle, the cavalcade and the train of footmen

swept out of the court yard, and descending the winding path, plunged

into the heart of the primeval forest. The dogs and the beaters darted

into the thick copsewood, and soon the shouts of the huntsmen and the

fierce bay of the dogs announced that a wild boar had been found and

started. On dashed the merry company, Count Alexis leading on the

spur. The lady Anna soon found herself alone, but she pressed her

palfrey in the direction of the sounds of the chase as they receded in

the distance. Suddenly she found herself in a small clearing, and drew

her rein to rest her panting steed. She had not remained long in her

position, when she heard, opposite to her, a crashing among the

branches, and the next moment a huge wild boar, maddened with pursuit,

and foaming with rage, broke into the opening and sprang directly

towards her. Her horse, terrified at the apparition, reared so

suddenly that he fell backwards, throwing his rider heavily, and

narrowly missing crushing her. Springing to his feet, he dashed wildly

away with flying mane and rein, while the lady lay at the mercy of the

infuriated animal, faint and incapable of exertion.

At that critical moment, a young man, in the livery of the count,

dashed before the prostrate form of the lady, and dropping on one

knee, levelled his short spear, and sternly received the charge of the

boar. Though the weapon was well directed, it shivered in the grasp of

the young huntsman; and though he drew his short sword with the

rapidity of thought, the boar was upon him. The struggle was short and

fierce, and the young huntsman succeeded in slaying the monster, but

not until he had received a severe wound in the arm from the tusks of

the boar. Heedless of his sufferings, however, he ran to a neighboring

rivulet, and filling his cap with water, returned and sprinkled the

face of the fainting girl. In a few moments she revived.

Her first words, uttered with a trembling voice, were,--

"Where--where is the wild boar?"

"There, lady," said the huntsman, pointing to the grizzly monster.

"His career is ended."

"And it is you who have saved my life," exclaimed Anna, with a

grateful smile.

"I did my duty, lady," answered the huntsman.

"But who are you, sir? Let me, at least, know your name that I may

remember you in my prayers."

"My name is Michael Erlitz; though your eyes, lady, may never have

dwelt on one so lowly as myself, I am ever in your father's train when

he goes to the chase. I am Count Tekeli's _slave_," he added, casting

his eyes on the ground.

"A slave? and so brave--so handsome!" thought the lady Anna; but she

gave no utterance to the thought.

At this moment the count rode up, followed by two or three of his

retainers, and throwing himself from his horse, clasped his daughter

in his arms.

"My child, my child!" he exclaimed; "thank God, you are alive! I saw

your horse dash past me riderless, and flew to your assistance. But

there is blood upon your dress."

"It is my blood!" said the slave, calmly.

"Yours, Michael?" cried the count, looking round him. "Now I see it

all--the dead boar, the broken spear, your bleeding arm. You saved my

daughter's life at the risk of your own!"

"The life of a slave belongs to his master and his master's family,"

answered Michael, calmly. "Of what value is the existence of a serf?

He belongs not to himself. He is of no more account than a horse or a

hound."

"Say not so," said Count Alexis, warmly. "Michael, you are a slave no

longer. I will directly make out your manumission papers. In the mean

time you shall do no menial service; you shall sit at my board, if you

will; and be my friend, if you will accept my friendship."

The eagle eye of the young huntsman kindled with rapture. He essayed

to speak, but the words died upon his tongue. Falling on his knees, he

seized the count's hand, and pressed it to his lips and heart. Tekeli

raised him from his humble posture.

"Michael," said he, "henceforth kneel only to your Maker. And now to

the castle; your hurt needs care."

"Willingly," said the young man, "would I shed the best blood in my

body to obtain my freedom."

"Ho, there!" said the count to his squire; "dismount, and let Michael

have your horse; and bring after us Michael's dearly-earned hunting

trophy. He has eclipsed us all to-day."

Michael was soon in the saddle, riding next to the lady Anna, who,

from time to time, turned her countenance, beaming with gratitude,

upon him, and addressed him words of encouragement and kindness; for

her proud and imperious nature was entirely subdued and changed, for

the time, by the service he had rendered her.

When the cavalcade reached the castle, they found the lady Eudocia,

the count's eldest daughter, waiting to receive them. She heard the

recital of the morning's adventure with deep interest; but a keen

observer would have noticed that she seemed less moved by the

recollection of her sister's danger, than by the present condition of

the wounded huntsman. It was to her care that he was committed, as she

was skilled in the healing art, having inherited the knowledge from

her mother. She compelled Michael to give up all active employment,

and, in the course of a few weeks, succeeded in effecting a complete

restoration of the wounded arm.

Count Tekeli treated the young man with the kindness of a father,

losing all his aristocratic prejudices in a generous sense of

gratitude. Splendidly attired, promised an honorable career in arms,

if he chose to adopt the military profession, his whole future changed

by a fortunate accident, Michael was happy in the intimacy of the two

sisters. He now dared to aspire to the hand of her whom he had saved,

and whom he loved with all the intensity of a passionate nature. Thus

weeks and months rolled on like minutes, and he only awaited the

delivery of his manumission papers to join the banner of his

sovereign.

One day--an eventful day, indeed, for him--he received from Eudocia,

the elder sister, a message, inviting him to meet her in a summer

house that stood in a small garden connected with the castle. Punctual

to the hour named, he presented himself before her.

"Michael," said she, extending her hand to him, "I sent for you to

tell you a secret."

Her voice was so tremulous and broken, that the young man gazed

earnestly into her face, and saw that she had been weeping, and now

with difficulty suppressed her tears.

"Nay," said she, smiling feebly; "it will not be a secret long, for I

must tell it to my father as soon as he returns from court with the

royal endorsement to your manumission. I am going to leave you all."

"To leave us, lady?"

"Yes; I am going to take the veil."

"You, so beautiful, so young! It cannot be."

"Alas! youth, beauty, are insufficient to secure happiness. The world

may be a lonely place, even to the young and beautiful; the cloister

is a still and sacred haven on the road to a better world."

"And what has induced you to take this step? I have not noticed

hitherto any trace of sorrow or weariness in your countenance."

"You were studying a brighter page--the fair face of my sister. Start

not, Michael; I have divined your secret. She loves you, Michael; she

loves you with her whole soul. You will wed her and be happy; while

I----" She turned away her face to conceal her tears.

The young man heard only the blissful prediction that concerned

himself; he noted not the pangs of her who uttered it.

"Dearest lady!" he exclaimed, "you have rendered me the happiest of

men;" and dropping on his knees, he seized her hand and covered it

with kisses.

"Hark!" said Eudocia, in alarm; "footsteps! We are surprised; I must

not be seen here!" and with these words she fled.

Michael sprang to his feet. Before him stood the younger daughter of

Count Alexis, her eyes flashing fire, her whole frame quivering with

passion. He advanced and took her hand, but she flung it from him

fiercely.

"Slave!" she exclaimed, "dare you pollute with your vile touch the

hand of a high-born dame--the daughter of your master?"

"Anna, what means this passion?" cried Michael, in astonishment.

"Silence, slave!" cried the imperious woman. "What ho, there!" she

added, stamping her foot; "who waits?"

Half a dozen menials sprang to her call.

"Take me this slave to the court yard!" she cried vehemently; "he has

been guilty of misbehavior. Let him taste the knout; and woe be to you

if you spare him. Away with him! Rid me of his hateful presence!"

While Michael was subjected to this hateful punishment, the vindictive

girl, still burning with passion, sought her sister. What passed

between them may be conjectured from what follows.

Michael, released from the hands of the menials, stood, with swelling

heart and burning brow, in one of the lofty apartments of the castle.

He had felt no pain from the lash, but the ignominy of the punishment

burned in his very soul, consuming the image that had been in his

inner heart for years. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and he now

beheld the younger daughter of the count in all the deformity of her

moral nature--proud, imperious, passionate, and cruel.

A door opened--a female, with dishevelled hair, and a countenance of

agony, rushed forward and threw herself at his feet, embracing his

knees convulsively. It was Anna!

"O Michael!" she cried, "forgive me, forgive me! I shall never forgive

myself for the pain I inflicted upon you."

"I have suffered no pain," replied Michael, coldly. "Or if I did, it

is the duty of a slave to suffer pain. You reminded me this morning

that I was still a slave."

"No, no! It is _I_ that am _your_ slave!" cried the lady. "Your

slave--body and soul. Behold! I kiss your feet in token of submission,

my lord and master! Michael, I love you--I adore you! I would follow

you barefoot to the end of the world. Let me kiss your burning wounds;

and O, forgive--forgive me!"

Michael raised her to her feet, and gazed steadily in her countenance.

"Lady," said he, "I loved you years ago, when, as a boy, I was only

permitted to gaze on you, as we gaze upon the stars, that we may

worship, but never possess. It was this high adoration that refined

and ennobled my nature; that, in the mire of thraldom, taught me to

aspire--taught me that, though a slave, I was yet a man. Through your

silent influence, I was enabled to refine my manners, to cultivate my

mind, and to fit myself for the freedom which bounteous Heaven had in

store for me."

"Yes, yes!" replied Anna. "You have made yourself all that can render

a woman happy. There is not a noble in the land who can boast of

accomplishments like yours; and you are beautiful as a virgin's dream

of angels."

"These are flattering _words_, lady."

"They come from the heart, Michael."

"You have told me what I am, lady. Now hear what I require in the

woman I would wed. She must be beautiful, for beauty should ever mate

with beauty; high born, for the lowly of birth are aspiring, and never

wed their equals; yet above all, gentle, womanly, kind, forgiving,

affectionate. No unsexed Semiramis or Zenobia for me."

"I will make myself all that you desire, Michael."

"We cannot change our natures," replied Michael, coldly.

"But you will forgive me?"

"I am not now in a condition to answer you. Smarting with indignation

I can ill suppress, I cannot command the calmness requisite to reply

in fit terms to the generous confidence of a high-born lady. Retire to

your apartment, lady, for your father is expected momently, and I must

see him first alone."

Anna kissed the hand of the slave, and retired slowly. A few moments

afterwards the gallop of a horse was heard entering the court yard,

and this sound was followed by the appearance of Count Alexis, who

threw himself into the arms of Michael, and pressed him to his heart.

"Joy, joy, Michael!" he exclaimed. "You are now free--as free as air!

Here are the documents; my slave no longer--my friend always. And as

soon as you choose to join the service, you can lead a troop of the

royal cavaliers."

Michael poured out his thanks to his generous master.

"And now," said the count, "to touch upon a matter nearer still to my

heart. Since the adventure in the forest, I have loved you as a son.

To make you such in reality would be to crown my old age with

happiness. My daughters are acknowledged to be beautiful, fitting

mates for the proudest of the land. I offer you the hand of her you

can love the best; make your election, and I doubt not her heart will

second my wishes and yours."

"My noble friend," said Michael, "I accept your offer gratefully. You

have made me the happiest of men. You will pardon me, I know, when I

confess that I have dared to raise my eyes to one of your daughters.

Without your consent the secret should have been hidden forever in my

own heart, even had it consumed it."

Count Tekeli shook the hand of the young man warmly, and then summoned

his two daughters. They obeyed promptly. Both were agitated, and bent

their eyes upon the floor.

"Count Tekeli," said Michael, speaking in a calm, clear voice, "I have

a word to say to this your younger daughter, the lady Anna."

As her name was uttered, the young girl raised her eyes, inquiringly,

to the face of the speaker.

"Lady, but now," said Michael, "you solicited my forgiveness on your

knees."

"What!" cried the count, the blood mounting to his temples; "a

daughter of mine solicit on her knees forgiveness of one so late my

more than vassal--my slave! What is the meaning of this?"

"It means," cried Michael, kindling as he spoke, "that this morning,

during your absence, count,--nay, a half hour before your return,

this, your younger daughter, in a moment of ill-founded jealousy and

rage, usurping your virtual rights,--rights you had yourself

annulled,--doomed me to the knout!--yea, had me scourged by menials in

the court yard of your castle!"

"How," cried the count, addressing his daughter, "dared you commit

this infamy on the person of my friend--the savior of your life?"

"I did, I did!" cried Anna, wringing her hands.

"And you asked me to forgive you," said Michael. "You offered me your

hand, and begged me to accept it. My answer is, Never, never, never!

The moment you laid the bloody scourge upon my back, you lost your

hold upon my heart forever! I were less than a man could I forgive

this outrage on my manhood. I saved your life--you repaid it with the

lash. It is not the lash that wounds, it is the shame. The one eats

into the living flesh, the other into the living heart. Were you ten

times more lovely than you are, you would ever be a monster in my

eyes."

The tears that coursed freely down the cheeks of the lady Anna ceased

to fall as Michael ceased to speak. A deep red flush mounted to her

temples, and her eyes, so lately humid, shot forth glances like those

of an angry tigress. She turned to the count.

"Father," said she, "will you permit a base-born slave to use such

language to your daughter?"

"Silence!" said the old man. "His heart is nobler than yours. More

measured terms could not have passed his lips. I should have despised

him had he felt and said less. Get thee to thy chamber, and in

penitence and prayer relieve thy conscience of the sin thou hast

committed."

The lady Anna retired from the apartment with a haughty air and

measured step.

"Lady," said Michael, approaching Eudocia, "between your sister and

myself there is a gulf impassable. If ever I can forgive her, it must

be when those sweet and tender eyes, that speak a heart all steeped in

gentleness and love, have smiled upon my hopes, and made me at peace

with all the world. Dearest Eudocia, will you accept the devotion of

my heart and life?"

He took her hand; it trembled in his grasp, but was not withdrawn. She

struggled for composure a moment, and then, resting her head upon his

shoulder, wept for joy.

The nuptials of Michael and Eudocia were soon celebrated. A brilliant

assemblage graced the old castle on the occasion; but long before the

solemnization, the count's younger daughter had fled to a convent to

conceal her anger and despair.

OBEYING ORDERS.

The "oldest inhabitant" perfectly remembers the Widow Trotter, who

used, many years ago, to inhabit a small wooden house away down in

Hanover Street, in somewhat close proximity to Salutation Alley. Well,

this widow was blessed with a son, who, like Goldsmith, and many other

men distinguished in after life, was the dunce of his class. Numerous

were the floggings which his stupidity brought upon him, and the road

to knowledge was with him truly a "wale of tears."

One day he came home, as usual, with red eyes and hands.

"O, you blockhead!" screamed his mother,--she was a bit of a virago,

Mrs. Trotter was,--"you've ben gettin' another lickin', I know."

"O, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that's one uv the reg'lar

exercises--lickin' me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master,

'I'll hear the 'rithmetic class.' But, mother, to change the subject,

as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is

there enny arrand I can do for you?"

"Yes," grumbled the widow; "only you're so eternal slow about every

thing you undertake--go get a pitcher of water, and be four years

about it, will ye?"

Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended his way in the direction of

the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered his

friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from his house,

dragging a heavy sea chest after him.

"Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a hand, and help us down to Long Wharf

with this."

"Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a

pitcher o' water."

"What do you care about your mother--she don't care for you? Come

along."

"Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it

again."

With these words he stowed away his earthenware under a flight of

stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard his ship. The pilot was

urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and

wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had shipped

the day before, wishing no good to his eyes for the delay he had

occasioned.

At last he turned to Bob, and said,--

"What do you say, youngster, to shipping with me? I'll treat you well,

and give you ten dollars a month."

"I should like to go," said Bob, hesitatingly. "But my mother----"

"Hang your mother!" interrupted the captain. "She'll be glad to get

rid of you. Come--will you go?"

"I hain't got no clothes."

"Here's a chestfull. That other chap was just your size; they'll fit

you to a T."

"I'll go."

"Cast off that line there!" shouted the captain; and the ship fell off

with the tide, and was soon standing down the bay with a fair wind,

and every stitch of canvas set. She was bound for the northwest coast,

_via_ Canton, and back again, which was then called the "double

voyage," and usually occupied about four years.

In the mean while, the non-appearance of Bob seriously alarmed his

mother. A night passed, and the town crier was called into requisition

a week, when she gave him up, had a note read for her in meeting, and

went into mourning.

Just four years after these occurrences the ship returned to port, and

Bob and his friend were paid off. The wages of the widow's son

amounted to just four hundred and eighty dollars, and he found, on

squaring his accounts with the captain, that his advances had amounted

to the odd tens, and four hundred dollars clear were the fruits of his

long cruise.

As he walked in the direction of his mother's house, in company with

Joe, he scanned with a curious eye the houses, the shops, and the

people that he passed. Nothing appeared changed; the same signs

indicated an unchanging hospitality on the part of the same landlords,

the same lumpers were standing at the same corners--it seemed as if he

had been gone only a day. With the old sights and sounds, Bob's old

feelings revived, and he almost dreaded to see, debouching from some

alley, a detachment of boys sent by his ancient enemy, the

schoolmaster, to know why he had been playing truant, and to carry him

back to receive the customary walloping.

When he was quite near home, he said,--

"Joe, I wonder if any body's found that old pitcher."

He stooped down, thrust his arm under the stone steps, and withdrew

the identical piece of earthenware he had deposited there just four

years ago.

Having rinsed and filled it at the pump, he walked into his mother's

house, and found her seated in her accustomed arm chair. She looked

at him for a minute, recognized him, screamed, and exclaimed,--

"Why, Bob! where _have_ you been? What have you been doing?"

"Gettin' that pitcher o' water," answered Bob, setting it upon the

table. "I always obey orders--you told me to be four years about it,

and I was."

THE DEACON'S HORSE.

As you turn a corner of the road, passing the base of a huge hill of

granite all overgrown with ivy and scrub oak, the deacon's house comes

full in sight. It is a quaint old edifice of wood, whose architecture

proclaims it as belonging to the ante-revolutionary period. Innocent

of paint, its dingy shingles and moss-grown roof assimilated with the

gray tint of the old stone fences and the granite boulders that rise

from the surrounding pasture land. The upper story projects over the

lower one, and in the huge double door that gives entrance to the hall

there are traces of Indian bullets and tomahawks, reminiscences of

that period when it was used as a blockhouse and served as a fortalice

to protect the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who fled

hither for protection from the vengeful steel and lead of the

aborigines. On one side of the mansion is an extensive apple orchard

of great antiquity, through which runs a living stream, whose babble

in the summer solstice, mingled with the hum of insects, is the most

refreshing sound to which the ear can listen. On the other side is one

of those old-fashioned wells, whose "old oaken bucket" rises to the

action of a "sweep." Two immemorial elm trees, in a green old age,

shadow the trim shaven lawn in front. Opposite the house, on the other

side of the road, is a vast barn, whose open doors, in the latter part

of July, afford a glimpse of a compact mass of English hay, destined

for the sustenance of the cattle in the dreary months of winter. We

must not forget the huge wood pile, suggestive of a cheerful fireside

in the long winter evenings.

But where is the deacon's horse? Last year, and for the past twenty

years preceding, you could hardly pass of a summer evening, without

noticing an old gray quietly feeding by the roadside, lazily brushing

off, with his long switch tail, the hungry flies that fastened on his

flanks. The landscape is nothing without the old horse. The deacon

reared him on the homestead. When a yearling he used to come regularly

to the back door and there receive crusts of bread, crumbs of cake,

and other delicacies, the free gifts of the children to their pet. He

was the most wonderful colt that ever was--as docile as the house dog.

When stray poultry trespassed on the grounds, he would lay his little

ears back, and putting his nose close to the ground, curling up his

lips and showing his white teeth, drive the marauders from the

premises with such a "scare," that they would refrain from their

incursions for a week to come. But he was incapable of injuring a

living thing.

When old enough for use, he submitted to the discipline of bit and

bridle without a single opposing effort. And what a fine figure he

made in harness! How smartly he trotted off to church carrying the

whole family behind him in a Dearborn wagon! How proud was his

carriage when he bore the deacon on his back!

The old man once made a long journey on horseback, to visit a brother

who lived in the northern part of New England. A great portion of the

way there was only a bridle path to follow through the woods, and this

was frequently obstructed by fallen trees. When the impediment was

merely a bare trunk, the gallant gray cleared it gayly at a flying

leap; when the tree was encumbered with branches, he clambered over

it like a wild cat. Once the deacon was obliged to dismount, and crawl

on his hands and knees through the dense branches; the sagacious horse

imitated his example, and worked his way through like a panther.

But age came upon the good gray. His sight began to fail--his knees to

falter. His teeth were entirely worn away.

After a bitter struggle the deacon concluded to replace him by a

younger horse. Life had become a burden to the old family servant, of

which it was a mercy to relieve him. Yet, even then, the deacon was

reluctant to give a positive order for his execution.

One day he called his eldest son to him.

"Abijah," said he, "I'm going over to W., to get that colt I was

speaking about. While I am gone I want you to _dispose_ of the poor

old gray. I shouldn't like to sell him to any body that would abuse

him."

He could say no more--but Abijah understood him. When his father had

gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he

placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully

loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was

accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly

neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a

handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the

rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan,

into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes,

Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then

carefully replaced the sod.

When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no

elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was

empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old

gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in

wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and

though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed

traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil

with his foot, and was also observed to pass the back of his hand

across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.

If there be men who can smile at the grief of a family for the loss of

an animal who has been long endeared to them by service and

association, be assured that their hearts are not in the right place;

and that they are individuals who would exhibit a like callousness to

the loss of human friends.

THE CONTRABANDISTA.

A TALE OF THE PACIFIC COAST.

Night was setting in--a clear, starlight night--as a small armed brig

was working her way into a little bay upon the western coast of

Mexico. She was a trim-built craft, and not too deeply laden to

conceal the symmetry of her dark and exquisitely-modelled hull. The

cleanness of her run, the elegance of her lines, the rake of her

slender masts, and the cut of her sails, showed her, at a glance, to

be a Baltimore-built clipper--at the time of which we speak--some

years ago--the fastest thing upon the ocean. She was working to

windward against a light breeze, and hence was unable to exhibit any

thing of her qualities, though a seaman's eye would have decided at a

glance that she could sail like a witch. The Zanthe, for that was the

name inscribed in gilt letters on her stern and sideboards, might have

been a dangerous customer in a brush, for her armament consisted of

ten brass eighteens, and her crew of sixty picked seamen--an abundance

of men to work the brig, and serve her batteries with satisfaction and

credit.

Not to keep the reader any longer in suspense with regard to her

character and purpose, we will inform him that the Zanthe was a

smuggler, and for some years had been engaged in the illegal game of

defrauding the revenue of the Mexican republic. She was commanded by a

Scotchman named Morris, and her first mate was a Yankee, answering to

the hail of Pardon G. Simpkins, as gallant a fellow and as good a

seaman as ever trod a plank. It was her custom to land contraband

goods at different points upon the coast where lighters were kept

concealed, and where the merchandise was taken charge of by the

shore-gang, a numerous and well-appointed body of picked men, mounted

and armed to the teeth, and provided with a large number of mules for

transporting the goods into the interior. The merchandise, lightered

off from the brig, was hidden in the _chaparral_, if it came on shore

before the mule trains were ready, and it was piled up with

combustibles, in such a manner that, should the _vigilantes_ surprise

them in sufficient numbers to effect a seizure, and overcome

resistance, a match thrown among the booty secured its destruction in

a few moments. A smoke by day and a fire by night, upon the shore, was

the signal for the brig to approach and come to anchor.

The Zanthe, as we before said, slowly worked her way to her anchorage.

One by one, her white sails, on which the last flush of the sunset

fires had just faded, were all furled, and, her anchors dropped, she

swung round with the tide, and rode in safety. A Bengola light was

displayed for a moment from the foretop, and answered by another from

the shore.

"All right, cap'n," said the mate, walking aft to where Morris was

standing, near the wheel. "The critters have seen us, and that are

firework means that there aint no vigilantes round abeout. I spose we

shall hev the lighters along side airly in the mornin'."

"Yes," said the captain. "I wonder whether Don Martinez is with the

shore gang."

"Not knowin', can't say," replied the mate. "Most likely he is,

howsomdever--'cause our cargo is vallable, and he'd be likely to look

after it."

"You know, Pardon," said the captain, "this is to be our last voyage."

"Edxactly," answered the mate.

"And I hope it will turn out well for the owners. For my part, I'm

tired of this life. Circumstances induced me to adopt it; but I can't

say that in my conscience I have ever approved it."

"Why, cap'n, you astonish me!" exclaimed the mate. "You don't mean to

say that you think it's any harm to cheat the greasers."

"Yes I do," replied the captain, shaking his head. "And I think the

aggravation of the offence is, that I am an adopted citizen of the

republic of the stars and stripes. I am engaged in defrauding the

government of a sister republic."

"A pretty sort er sister republic," replied the mate, disdainfully. "A

poor, miserable set of thievin', throat-cuttin', monte-playin',

cattle-stealin', bean-eatin' griffins. If our government had had any

spunk, we'd have pitched into 'em long ago. And it was only because

they're weaker than we be, that we haven't licked 'em into spun yarn."

"But suppose, Pardon, we should be (a chance that, thank Heaven, has

never yet occurred) overhauled by one of their revenue cutters."

"The little Zanthe could walk away from her like a racer from a plough

horse."

"But, supposing we were surprised, and lay where we couldn't run."

"Cap'n," said Pardon, glancing along the grim batteries of the Zanthe,

"do you see them are lovely bull dogs? And them are sturdy Jacks

what's a sittin' on the breeches of the guns? What on airth was they

made for? A couple of broadsides, starboard and larboard, would settle

the hash of the smartest revenue cutter that ever dipped her fore foot

in the water."

"And the after thought would never trouble you, Pardon?"

"Never! 'shelp me, Bob," replied the mate, energetically. "Greasers

isn't human bein's. Besides, it's all fair play, life for life, and

the gentleman with the single fluke tail take the loser. Haint they

set a price on our heads? Eight thousand dollars on your'n, and five

thousand on mine? I never was worth five thousand down at Portland;

but if they've marked me up too high, it's their own look out. They'll

never be called upon to pay it. But this sellin' a fellur's head

standin', like a lot of firewood, is excessively aggravatin', and gets

a fellur's mad up. But, hallo, cap'n, here comes a shore boat. I'll

bet it's Don Martinez."

A row boat, manned by eight Mexicans, with a muffled figure in the

stern sheets, now pulled out for the brig, and soon lay alongside. On

being challenged, a preconcerted watchword was given in reply, and the

oars being shipped, a couple of boat hooks held the boat fast at the

foot of the starboard side-ladder. This done, the person in the stern

sheets arose and prepared to ascend the brig's side.

"Petticoats, by thunder!" muttered the mate. "What does this mean,

cap'n?"

Captain Morris was evidently surprised at the sex of his visitor, but

he assisted and welcomed her on board with the frank courtesy of a

seaman. The light of a battle lantern that stood upon the harness

cask, displayed the dark but handsome features of a young Mexican

senorita, whose small and graceful hand, sparkling with rings,

gathered her silken _rebosa_ around her symmetrical figure, in folds

that would have enchanted an artist.

"Senor captain," said she, "I bear you a message from Martinez. He

bade me tell you to land half your cargo here to-morrow, as before

agreed upon. The remainder goes to Santa Rosara, fifty miles to the

northward, where he awaits you with a chosen band."

"Senorita," replied the captain, with hesitation, "it were ungallant

to express a doubt. But ours is a perilous business, and on the mere

word of a stranger--though that stranger be an accomplished lady----"

"O, I come furnished with credentials, senor," interrupted the lady,

with a smile; "there is a letter from Martinez."

Captain Morris hastily perused the letter which the lady handed him.

Its contents vouched for her fidelity, and, intimating that the lady

was a dear friend of his, and likely to be soon intimately connected

with him, committed her to the charge of the captain, and requested

him to bring her on to Santa Rosara on board the brig.

Morris immediately expressed his sense of the honor done him, and

escorted the senorita below, where he abandoned his state room and

cabin to her use. Pardon G. Simpkins walked his watch in great ill

humor, muttering to himself incessantly.

"What in the blazes keeps these here women folks continually emergin'

from their aliment and mixin' into other spheres? They're well enough

ashore, but on soundin's and blue water they beat old Nick. And aboard

a _contrabandista_, too! It's enough to make a Quaker kick his

grandmother. Howsomdever, Morris is just soft-headed fool enough to

like it, and think it all fine fun. I shouldn't wonder if he was ass

enough to get spliced one of these days, and take his wife to sea. I

think I see a doggarytype of myself took as mate of a vessel that

sails with a cap'n's wife aboard."

And, chuckling at this idea, he put an extra quid in his mouth, and

ruminated in a better frame of mind.

In the morning, Mr. Simpkins turned out betimes to prepare for the

landing of a portion of the cargo; and he was busied in this duty,

when an incident occurred that might well have startled a less ready

and self-possessed man than the mate of the Zanthe.

Suddenly rounding the headland on the north, a cutter, with the

Mexican flag flying at her mizzen peak, and the muzzles of her guns

gleaming through the port holes, came in view of the astonished mate.

She stood into the bay, till within rifle shot of the bow of the

Zanthe, when she dropped her sails and came to anchor.

As she accomplished this manoeuvre, the mate mustered the crew, run

out his guns, which were all shotted, and then quietly roused the

captain and brought him on deck.

"That looks a little wicked, cap'n," said the mate, pointing at the

revenue cutter.

The captain shook his head.

"Now, cap'n," said the mate, briskly, "just speak the word, and I'll

give him my starboard battery before the slow-motioned critter fires a

gun."

"No, no," said the captain; "wait!"

Mr. Simpkins looked fixedly at the captain, thrust his hands deep into

the pockets of his pea jacket, and sitting down on the breech of a

gun, whistled Yankee Doodle in such slow time that it sounded like a

dead march.

In another minute, a barge was lowered from the side of the Mexican

cutter, and manned with armed sailors, while an officer in uniform

took his seat in the stern sheets.

The barge pulled alongside, Captain Morris neither hailing nor

offering to take any action in the premises. Leaving only a boatkeeper

in the barge, the Mexican officer, followed by his crew, sprang up the

ladder, and bounding on deck, struck his drawn sword on the capstan,

and announced the Zanthe as his prize.

"To whom shall I have the honor of surrendering?" asked Captain

Morris, touching his hat.

"My name," said the officer, glancing from a paper he held in his

hand, as he spoke, "is Captain Ramon Morena, of the Vengador cutter.

You, I presume, are Captain Morris, of the Zanthe."

Morris bowed.

"And you are Pardon G. Simpkins, I suppose," said the Mexican,

addressing the mate.

"Pardon G. Simpkins--five thousand dollars," replied that gentleman.

"Captain Morena," said Morris, "before we proceed to business, do me

the favor to walk into my cabin. While we are below," he added, "I

trust your men will be ordered not to maltreat my poor fellows."

The Mexican captain glanced, with some surprise, at the formidable

array of men upon the deck of the Zanthe, and then, after a few words

in Spanish to his boat's crew, followed the captain and mate into the

cabin.

Captain Morena was a very fine looking man of thirty, with magnificent

hair and mustaches, and wore a very showy uniform. He threw himself

carelessly upon the transom, and laid his sword upon the cabin table,

while Morris and the mate seated themselves on camp stools.

"Senor capitan," said Morris, "I trust, though it be early in the day,

that you have no objection to take a glass of wine with me."

The Mexican assented to the proposition, and the steward produced a

bottle, glasses, and cigars.

"Your health, capitan," said Morris, with a courteous smile; "and may

you ever be as successful as on the present occasion."

"Muchas gracias senor," replied the Mexican; "you bear the loss of

your brig very good humoredly. What may she be worth?"

"She cost thirty thousand dollars in Baltimore," replied Morris.

"You must regret to lose her."

"That admits no question, senor."

"But that is of minor importance, compared with your other loss."

"What loss?"

"The loss of your life. I fear nothing can save you or your friend

here. Yet, perhaps, intercession may do something. I suppose you would

prefer being shot to hanging from the yard-arm."

"Decidedly," answered Morris.

"Or working for life on the highway, with a ball and chain, you would

think preferable to both."

"Cap'n Morris," said the mate, speaking in English, "it strikes me

that our friend in the hairy face is a leetle grain out in his

reckoning; 'pears to me, that instead of our bein' in his power, he's

in ourn. Just say the word, and I'll gin the Vengador a broadside

that'll sink her in the shiver of a main topsail."

"You are right, Pardon," said the captain, smiling; "the gentleman has

missed a figure, certainly. Captain Morena," he added, speaking in

Spanish, "you have made a small mistake; you are _my_ prisoner, sir.

Nay, start not; you are completely in my power. Dare but to breathe

another word of menace, or offer to resist me, and the Vengador shall

go to Davy Jones. Pass me that sword."

Morena, taken by surprise, obeyed.

"Gi' me his toastin' fork, cap'n," said the mate, "and I'll lock it up

in my state room;" which was done almost as soon as said.

"And now, Captain Morena," said Morris, "just walk on deck and explain

matters to your people, and then I'll show you how fast a Yankee crew

and Mexican lightermen can unload a contrabandista."

They adjourned to the deck, and the Mexican captain was compelled to

remain an inactive witness, while boat load after boat load of

contraband goods was landed under his own eyes, and the very guns of

his cutter. When the work was finished, Captain Morris approached

Morena, and said,--

"Captain, I have a word to say to you. I am going up the coast fifty

miles, to land the remainder of my cargo at Santa Rosara. Give me your

word that you will not follow and molest me, that you will not breathe

a word of what you have seen and heard, and I will restore your sword

and release you on _parole_."

The revenue captain gave the required pledge, and his sword was

restored; after which his men were permitted to man the barge.

"And now, captain, one bumper at parting," said the hospitable Morris.

"The steward has just opened a fresh bottle, and besides I have a

pleasant surprise for you."

As they entered the cabin, Morena started back and uttered an

exclamation as his eyes fell on the beautiful face and graceful figure

of the Mexican senorita, who had taken her seat at the table.

"Maria!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," replied the lady, with sparkling eyes and heightened color. "I

have escaped your power. The man who basely sought to coerce my

inclinations has been baffled, and ere another sun has set, I shall be

the bride of the smuggler Martinez."

"Malediction!" cried the Mexican.

"Come, come, cap'n," said the mate, "take a horn, and settle your

proud stomach."

"Never," said the Mexican. "A curse on all of ye!" and he sprang to

the deck, threw himself into his barge, and was soon aboard of the

cutter.

As the clipper brig, with all her canvas set, and her larboard tacks

aboard, bowed gracefully to the freshening breeze, and bowled away

under the stern of the Mexican cutter, the mate said to the captain,--

"Cap'n, I wish you'd just let me give that fellur a broadside, if it

was only just to clean the guns, afore I run 'em in."

"No, no," replied the captain, smiling, "honor bright, my boy. We'll

keep our word to him."