University of Virginia Library

2. PART II.

1. CHAPTER I.

On the banks of the Osage, some several miles
from where it empties into the dark and muddy
Missouri, is a wild, gloomy and romantic spot.—
Even at the present day it has not been reached
by civilization, and still stands alone in the solemn
grandeur of nature. Here mountains rear their
rugged heads steep and stupendous; there fearful
chasms yawn as if awaiting some prey for their
mighty jaws; while anon dashes along some sparkling
rivulet, leaping from rock to rock, making
music in its devious course, until finally plunging
into some larger stream, its tiny youthful song is
forever buried in oblivion.

From the Osage, back for some little distance,
flows a creek—reflecting its rugged banks in its
silvery bosom as in a mirror—and terminates in a
semi, or three-quarter circled cove, surrounded
by tall, majestic, overhanging cliffs. This water
is supplied from the Osage, and passing as it does
between such craggy steeps, forms a dark, lonely,
silent retreat. The rocks surrounding its termination
are high and arching, so that their base can
only be approached by water. Within this cove,
beneath these rocks, at the time of which we
write, was an extensive cavern—known at the
present day by the name of “The Robber's Cave.”
It was well calculated as a fugitive retreat; for defended
by a few, it would be a risky attack for a
combined force, even though possessed of overwhelming
numbers. It could be approached only
by boats coming from the Osage, as the sides of
the creek were lined with precipitous rocks,
where descent would be at the imminent peril of
the hardy adventurer. It was, in fact, a spot
which seemed as it were planned and fortified by
Nature, in one of her wildest moods, for some
great and daring enterprise.

Standing on the summit of one of the surrounding
cliffs, the eye embraced an extensive scope of
country, whose ragged, picturesque surface presented
scenes sublimely beautiful, and as variegated
as the wildest conceptions of the most vivid
imagination. Here you beheld a stunted growth
of trees overhanging some frightful precipice;
there rocks piled topling up, until they seemed
ready to fall with a crashing vengeance upon minor
objects below; while winding like a silvery
belt between, at some little distance, was the dark
and silent Osage, gliding on to be united with one
of earth's mightiest rivers, and then forever lost
in its last long home of the boundless deep.

There is, in contemplating the beauty and grandeur
of Nature, something so fascinating, so holy,
so inspiring—we feel so drawn away from the
many petty trifles of common life, that to die
amid such scenes appears to us as it were robbing
Death of half his terrors. 'Tis then we feel purified—elevated;
we feel that we are alone in the
presence of God—Almighty God! and when it
shall be our fate, as sooner or later it must be, (and
with all) to pass the bourne whence none return,
O! let our body be consigned to dust beside
the dashing of some stream, away from the haunts
of men, where the soul, the sublime soul of Nature
herself pervades!

The cavern of which we have made mention,
and to which we must now turn our attention,
was entered from the creek, through a small aperture
some two feet above the water. From this
you descended rather abruptly some ten or fifteen
feet, when you found yourself in a large, arching
cave of stone, sufficient in size to contain an
hundred and fifty persons. From this was a low
arched passage through the rock, leading into another
apartment, some twenty by thirty feet.

This secret retreat, at the date of our story, was
the grand rendezvous of a numerous banditti, of
whom mention has been made in the opening.—
Along the sides of the cave were ranged pistols,
knives, rifles, carbines, powder-flasks, and all the
various insignia of warfare. At one end was erected
a platform, whereon the chief of the banditti
sat or stood, when holding public council. Along
the sides were ranged oaken benches, where the
members could be seated, and the whole together
wore an air of comfort and convenience. But of
the Inner Cave, or Chieftain's Chamber, as it was
generally called, we wish for the present to
speak more particularly. Could one have been
introduced into it privately, or without knowing
where he was, and seen it lighted in all its brilliancy,
he would have fancied himself in the gorgeous
apartment of some palace, rather than in a
robber's cave. Everything in the shape of splendor
and luxury was there. A rich damask silk
curtain, arranged in graceful folds, extended round
and completely screened the walls; against which,
from floor to ceiling, extended four splendid mirrors,
in gilt frames, each placed opposite the other,
occupying the four sides of the apartment and reflecting
every object in it. Much of the intervening
space on the walls was filled with paintings of
various and fanciful designs, but all evidently executed
by artists of no ordinary talent:—in fact,
some of them were from the great masters of Europe.
On the floor, which was dark, of marble
polish, stood several sofas, of elegant workmanship,
together with a table of solid stone, most
beautifully carved, on which, strange as it may
seem, were piled books and music. A guitar and
violin, evidently in much requisition, were lying
carelessly on one of the sofas, beside which,
in seeming contrast, lay a brace of pistols, a gold
mounted short sword and a silver handled dirk.—

In fact, several of the last mentioned articles were
occupying positions in different parts of the Chamber,
strangely at variance with its otherwise poetical
aspect. There was no outlet to this apartment,
save the aperture already mentioned as
connecting it with the larger cave, and consequently
the light, which must of necessity be artificial,
proceeded from a gold mounted chandelier,
suspended midway of the ceiling, and gave to
each thing a soft, dreamy, voluptuous appearance.
We have said there was no outlet, save one;
but in addition to what the reader has already
seen, was a recess, entered by drawing aside the
folds of the curtain, sufficiently large for a sleeping
apartment, and was doubtless used for this
purpose, as it contained the requisites.

It may perhaps appear strange to the reader,
that so much of luxury, civilization, and even refinement,
should be found at this period, so far
back in the wilds of Missouri, and what is more,
in a robber's cave. But to the very circumstance
of its being a robber's cave, let it be attributed;
for the access that an organized banditti would
have to various kinds of plunder, may be said to
be almost limitless. That such things as we have
mentioned could have been procured and brought
hither, no one will question—that they were, we
assert. There is also another thing to be taken
into consideration. That the chief of these outlaws
was no ordinary individual, that he was a
man of some learning, taste and refinement—of a
fanciful, poetical temperament—the selection and
arrangement of the articles in his private apartment
go to prove. But this will doubtless be developed
in the progress of our story, therefore we
will not anticipate, but turn our attention to the
present occupants of the Chieftain's Chamber.

On the afternoon of the same day with which
we closed the preceding chapter, reclining in an
easy, graceful attitude on one of the sofas of this
elegant apartment, was a beautiful female of some
twenty summers. To give anything like a perfect
description of her dress and appearance, will,
we fear, be an impossibility; yet we may be able
to draw a sketch, from which the imagination of
the reader may fill the picture. Her features were
cast in nature's finest mould, and though not
strictly classic, yet possessing an appearance of
delicate chiseling, if we may so express it, which is
never seen save in those whose mental power predominates
over their physical—or, in other words,
whose intellectual commands our respect, where
otherwise the animal would excite our passions.
Her skin was dark and spoke her Spanish origin.
Her hair was black, and fell in a sort of graceful
negligence around a beautiful rounded neck,
which was bared low, and gave her a somewhat
voluptuous appearance; nor was this lessened by
her round, plump, soft arms—bare nearly to her
shoulders—one of which was thrown gracefully
under her head, and ended in a small pretty hand,
with gently tapering fingers,—the latter, by the
way, glittering with rings of great value. Her
eyes were black—sparkling black—in whose liquid
depths you could see the fire of passion, the
jealousy of love and the revenge of hate. Love
was there—wild passionate love—but it was love
that must know no rival, else the fawn would be
changed to the tigress. It was love that would
dare all,sacrifice all, for the object on which it was
fixed; but that object must love in return, or be
itself a sacrifice. There was about her mouth a
peculiar expression, which we cannot forbear to
notice. It was a smile, but then it was a smile
wherein you could read to a certain extent the
mind which governed it. Was she sad, it was
mournful; was she happy, it was pleasing; was
she angry, it was full of scorn, defiance and revenge;
but in all moods, all changes of feeling, it
was ever there, it was ever a smile Her dress
was cut low around the neck, leaving the arms
also bare, and was fancifully trimmed with gold
lace, which gave it a very singular effect.

The other occupant of the Chamber was a female
slave—a mulatto—who was standing before one
of the mirrors, arranging her curly hair with great
precision, and viewing her comely features with
no small degree of pride. She was of good proportions,
some twenty-five years of age, possessed
a rather pleasing countenance, and, for one of her
race, of more than ordinary intellect. She was
gaily and somewhat fantastically dressed.

For a few moments the lady on the sofa gazed
upon her slave in that languid manner which bespeaks
the mind occupied in some pleasing reverie,
and then slightly raising herself and altering her
position, in a voice peculiar for its musical tones,
said:

“Cyntha, do you hear the dip of oars?”

The other listened a moment, and then made
answer: “No, missus.”

“I think your ears are a little dull, Cyntha.—
Question the sentinel!”

The other instantly disappeared into the larger
cave and quickly returned. “O yes, missus right,
massa coming.”

“As I thought,” replied the lady, with a pleasing
smile. “You see, Cyntha, the ears of love
are quick.”

“O yesum, missus, I knows 'em berry quick.”

“Well, now, arrange my hair, quickly as possible.”

The slave sprang to her mistress, with the agility
of one accustomed to obey with promptness the
slightest command of her superiors, and in a few
moments all was arranged in tasteful order.—
Scarcely was it completed, when a heavy tread
was heard in the Outer Cave, and the next moment
a figure of commanding appearance stood
full in the light of the Chieftain's Chamber. The
lady arose, flew to his arms, and the lips of both
met: then leading her to a sofa, he seated himself
beside her, removing at the same time from his
head a cap of very singular construction, and exhibiting
a forehead broad and high, surmounted
by glossy raven hair, which fell in ringlets adown
his face and around a neck, whose full, handsome
proportions were indicitive of great muscular
power. His complexion was dark, darker even
than the lady's. His eyes were black and brilliant—his
features bold, though in outline rather
handsome, and his chin was graced with an imperial.
His dress was of a strange order, and seemed
to combine the sailor and the back-woodsman—in
fact he was a man that the most casual observer
would not have passed without a second notice.—
Turning to the lady with a look of tender admiration,
he threw his arms around her waist, drew
her fondly to him, and again pressed his lips to
hers, saying at the same time, in a low tone:

“My Inez looks beautiful to-day!”

“And Inez is proud that Ronald thinks so,” replied
the lady, with a smile of sweetness, her eyes
beaming with love, and fixed earnestly upon his.
“But tell me, Ronald, why have you been thus
long away? Oh, wearily the hours have passed,
and methought last night would never bring a
morn.”

“Business, Inez, business prolonged my absence,”
answered the other somewhat hurriedly.
“But come,” he added, as though to change the
theme, “let us have some music! I am sighing
for a tender strain, to drown a world of thought!”

“Thought, Ronald, thought! what makes you
think?” enquired Inez, gazing into his face with a
look of anxiety.

“Nothing, love, nothing. Ho! Cyntha—the
music!” and as the slave brought forward the
guitar, he continued:—“There Inez, my pretty
one, come, music, music!—a song, love, a song!”

Inez took the guitar, still eyeing him steadily,
as though there was something in his humor unnatural
and which she could not comprehend.

“Will you not accompany me, Ronald?”

“No, Inez, I will listen.”

“What shall I play and sing?”

“Anything! something wild!”

“Wild, Ronald?”

“Wild and sweet, Inez.”

“Ronald, you are not yourself;” and Inez ran
her fingers over the strings, paused and gazed tenderly
upon him. “Something troubles you, Ronald.
Tell me, tell your Inez the secret;” and
the smile was mournful.

“I swear to you it is nothing—I am cheerful;”
and he turned to her with a smile. “But the song!
the song!”

“Shall it be The Rover?”

“Ay! The Rover.”

Inez made no further remark, but tuning her
instrument, in a voice rich in melody sang

“Well sung, Inez!” exclaimed Ronald, with animation,
as the last notes died away. “Well sung!
and apropos: there is something in the song much
in unison with my own feelings; and somehow
there seems a connection between the Rover and
myself. Where learned you the song?”

“In a southern city, of a traveling minstrel.”

“It reminds me forcibly of my boyhood days,”
returned Ronald, with a half-stifled sigh.

“Indeed!” said Inez, gazing earnestly upon
him. You have often promised me the story of
your birth, Ronald; why not tell it me now?”

“I would have told you ere this, love; but somehow
the recalling of the golden days of youth,
the revival of the past, ever tends to make me
sad; and you know I dislike being sad, Inez.
But no matter—you shall have the story now;
there will perhaps never be a time more appropriate.
Cyntha, you may leave us;” and as the
slave departed, he continued: “Prepare yourself
to listen—so runs the tale:

“England is the land of my nativity. My mother,
God rest her soul! I well remember. She was
one of those sweet, gentle, affectionate, sensitive
beings, that occasionally find their way into this
world of sorrow and strife, as though to remind
man if the picture be dark, it has its bright,
sunny spots. She was a woman on whom none
could gaze with feelings of indifference. She
was herself all soul, all feeling; one whose eyes
would ever grow dim at a tale of sorrow. Oh!
how I loved her!—with what wild, passionate
devotion! My very existence seemed centered
in hers; and the very idea of a separation by
death would often fill my young eyes with tears.
I remember we lived in comfortable circumstances.
We occupied a beautiful little cottage,
surrounded by a landscape variegated and pleasing,
stretching far away in gentle undulations,
like the swell of the ocean in a calm, and ending
in hills, which to my young fancy seemed rising
as guardians to overlook and watch the valley below.
There was a delightful quiet about the spot,
which even as I recall it lends a soothing influence
to my restless, turbulent spirit. Near to
our cottage was a shady grove, through which
slowly meandered a lovely stream, on whose velvet-like
banks I have lingered many an hour,
angling for the finy tribe in its placid bosom. In
the more immediate vicinity of the cottage was
a garden of flowers, of all kinds and hues, and
the walls themselves were shaded by the creeping,
clinging ivy. The whole scene might be
described as a perfect picture of domestic happiness;
and to this and my mother's gentle disposition,
I have ever felt myself indebted for those
finer feelings which are so foreign to my present
occupation.

“But notwithstanding this seeming happiness
(and, alas! reality has taught me that if we fathom

the human heart we shall find in most cases
that what we took for happiness was but the seeming)
there was sorrow even in that cottage—in
the heart of my own beloved mother. It often
appeared strange to me, even in my earliest days,
that I never saw my father, that I never heard
my mother speak of him; and when curiosity
excited me to enquire of her—as it sometimes
would—the reason, she ever grew sad, melancholy,
and put me off with the answer that she
would inform me at some future time—that I was
not yet enough advanced in years to understand.
This of course but added fuel to the flame; but
as I saw the question ever pained her, I finally
dropped it altogether, trusting that she would inform
me in her own good time.

“She was a woman of fine taste and education,
and under her own instructions I was early
taught to read and write; and possessing a choice
library of poetry and romance, and my mind being
naturally bent in that channel, I took to
books with great avidity, and whiled away many
a long evening, or what would otherwise have
been so, in reading to her such passages as I fancied
most in accordance with her gentle spirit.
Thus passed the first twelve and happiest years
of my existence.

“Feeling that I had now arrived at the proper
age, and that it was a duty she owed me, she determined
on sending me to school; and though
the idea of parting with me was painful, yet as
she felt it was for my own benefit she did so, the
pleadings of duty became paramount to feeling,
and unknown to myself every thing was arranged
for my departure. When she first broke the news
to me, it came like the shock of an unexpected
thunder-bolt; nor could I believe her really in
earnest until she had thrice reiterated it. Never
shall I forget the feelings which the thought of
separation occasioned. Separation had been the
one secret dread of my life; but it had been the
separation of death only—voluntary separation
having never entered my mind. She at once perceived
my feelings—for they found a sad echo in
her own heart, and by gentle reasoning sought to
convince me of the necessity and benefit of our
parting for a time. She informed me it was in
her power to give me an education; but beyond
that little or nothing; and she felt anxious I should
gain that, which, whatever misfortunes might befal
me in after years, would ever be mine. I listened
to her,—I saw her mind was bent upon it,
and I acquiesced, without a word of murmur. A
few days and we parted; but sad, most sad, was
the parting. Pardon me, Inez, but the thought of
it makes me childish,” and Ronald passed his hand
across his eyes, and for a few moments remained
silent.

“Never,” he resumed at length, “shall I forget
her sweet, mournful features, as she stood gazing
upon me, on the morning of my departure, with
a look wherein was concentrated all the deep
yearnings of a mother's heart, for a son she might
never behold again; and doubtless there was a
presentiment of this kind at work within her,—
for when we came to the final adieu, she clasped
me to her heart, almost convulsively,—the tears
rolled down her cheeks,—and it was with difficulty
she could utter, `God bless you, my son!—farewell!
If we never meet again'—she paused—
`forget not my memory!' My feelings, Inez, you
may imagine; I cannot describe them—words are
too weak. Thus we parted”—Ronald paused as
if struggling with some deep emotion, and them
added, faintly—“forever!”

“Forever!” exclaimed Inez, involuntarily.

“Ay, forever! But—the story:—I must be
more brief. The school to which I was sent was
some hundred miles distant, and was one, if truth
must be said, better calculated to learn me in the
ways and vices of the world, than in knowledge
of books. I was there thrown among all classes,
and left without a guide to choose my companions.
Naturally of a bold, reckless disposition, I
unfortunately became a favorite of the worst
class; and by degrees was led into scenes of revelry
and wickedness, of the existence of which,
ere I went there, I had never even dreamed. It is
unnecessary for me to dwell in detail; suffice it,
therefore, that at the end of three years I left the
school in disgrace. An hour after my dismissal,
I received the news of the death of my mother,
the only friend I had in the world. Oh! what were
my feelings! I have an indistinct recollection of
a pressure—a whirl—a fire in my brain, and I
knew no more. I was mad—raving mad! The
messenger who bore me the news, bore me home
a maniac. Home, no! Oh God! it was home
no longer! Ere I recovered my reason, my mother
was mouldering in the dust. I shall not dwell
on my feelings of grief and utter desolation, when
I again comprehended all:—the subject is too painful,
and other matters press me for narration.
The only legacy left me was a sealed package,
which I opened with a trembling hand—the contents
I distinctly remember, for they are engraved
upon the very tablets of my heart. A letter
within, ran thus:

“Oh! Gods! Inez, what think you were my
feelings, when I read this? It seemed as though
all the demons of hell itself were at work within
my heart! Is this the world? cried I. Do men
live and pass unpunished—ay! and more!—are
they courted by the world, that trample upon and
break the hearts of God's loveliest images? Does
society uphold men in deeds of wickedness that
would even blacken the character of hell's archfiend?
Do they drag man before their mock
tribunals, and sentence him to rot in prison, because
necessity forced him to take a morsel of
bread to save himself and offspring from starvation?
Is this society?—is this the boasted land
of justice and religion? Then deliver me from
it!—then let me war against it!—ay! let me be
an outlaw from that society, which is itself an
outlaw from all that is good! Such were the
thoughts, Inez, that rushed forth from my burning
brain! Boy I was in years, but boy no longer!
I felt I was alone in a world black, with sin, and
must choose and act for myself. Nor was I without
experience. The last three years of my life,
if not in book learning, had advanced me much in
knowledge of the world. A change had come
over me. Once I thought of nothing but innocent
affections and happy dreams of the future.
Now clouds dark and gloomy rose in wild fantastic
shapes before me. And life, what was it?—
and what was I? What hopes had I of brightness?
A being of noble birth, but not I galized
by the laws of the land, sent into the world to be
the jeer of my fellows! I, son of Sir Walter Langdon—for
he had now assumed the title of his
father, deceased—who by right should claim his
affection, to be looked upon by him—by my own
father—as a being low-born, and perhaps spurned
from his presence, should I seek him out? Oh!
how these thoughts crowded upon me!

“I went abroad, young as I was, and visited the
principal cities of Europe. At the end of three
years I returned to England, exhausted in funds,
and for the first time determined on visiting my
father. I sought him out and stood before him.
He demanded my name and business. My name,
I replied, is one you will long remember: Ronald
Bonardi, or Ronald Langdon, as circumstances
may be. He turned pale and his eye sunk before
my steady gaze; then recovering his self-possession,
he bade me begone and never enter his presence
again—said he knew me not—that I was a
base imposter! Oh! Inez, that moment had nearly
been fatal to him, such a wild passion was
aroused within me! I could feel the blood drop
by drop retreating to my heart, and I fairly reeled.
Such words from my father—from the author of
my existence—nearly dethroned my reason! By
a mighty effort I conquered myself and replied,
my lips quivering with suppressed passion, that
I would leave on one condition and never see him
more. He demanded it. Money! was my only
answer. He gave me money and I left; but ere I
did, I told him the orphan's curse was on him;
ay! father though he was, I cursed and left him
trembling. That curse, Inez, was fulfilled—terribly
fulfilled. His wife, then in the bloom of health,
shortly after died. His son, near my own age,
was murdered. His daughter, then some three
years of age, disappeared suddenly; and he, to
sum up, survived but a few months—dying a
maniac—and his estate passed into the hands of
another. By what singular fatality I was avenged,
I know not; but so was the termination.

“I came to America, and caring little what became
of me, led a dissolute life. For twelve years
I traveled through the States a professional gambler.
This course of life tended to harden me to
almost any deed whereby I might be the gainer in
the shape of gold, that glittering earth to which all
classes bow in humble reverence. By chance I
fell in with a lawless band of desperadoes, who,
through a fancy I never could account for, chose
me for their leader. I accepted the office on condition
that I should have absolute sway so long
as remained their chief, and that they would allow
me to organize them as I saw proper. To
this, without a dissenting voice, they consented,
and I was elected captain for the term of five
years. My first proceeding was to find a safe
rendezvous and establish such a code of laws as I
deemed most beneficial to us as a body. This was
done, and it is needless to tell you this was the
place chosen for our secret retreat. For two years,
Inez, ere I saw you, I led a wild life; and though
by my deeds I made myself an outlaw, yet to this
day my hands are free from the stain of blood; still
I fear, if, I remain much longer chief, I shall have
to put in force a law, which, as executioner, will
not leave me guiltless.”

“What mean you, Ronald?” asked Inez, quickly,
who had been listening to his story with breathless
attention.

“There is disaffection creeping into our ranks,
which I fear will result in treachery and mutiny.
Some evidences I have already seen. To the offender

the punishment is death by the hands of the
chief.”

“God save you from such a crime! dear Ronald,”
cried Inez, throwing her arms around his
neck and gazing tenderly upon him.

“Ah! gentle Inez,” said Ronald, with deep
emotion, tenderly embracing her, “why should
fate doom you to be linked to a bandit chief?—
Was there no better destiny in store for you?”

“I murmur not, Ronald,” replied Inez, sweetly.

“True, you do not; yet am I not blind to your
feelings. When first I saw you, dearest Inez,
three years since, I felt what it was to love—never
till then. In disguise I sought your acquaintance;
in disguise I won your affections; but my
love was deep and true, and in disguise I could not
wed you. No! base as I had been—base as I
then was—a bandit chief—an outlaw from society
—I could not farther deceive the only being I
loved on earth. It was painful, very painful, to
think that I must tear myself from you, and perchance
never see you more. Oh! how many
sleepless nights it cost me! how much heart rending
misery! But my resolution was taken. I
loved you, and would not drag you to perdition.
I would tell you all and part forever. I told you all;
but O, what was my surprise—my joy—when instead
of spurning me from your sight, you told
me with your own sweet lips our fates were one!
For a time, sweet Inez, I could not believe it reality;
that there was for the outcast so much joy
in store; but the altar proved it true. Since then,
Inez, I have never been the same being. Then,
for the first time in my long career of crime, did I
feel guilt; for the first time sighed to be an honest
man. But my oath as bandit chief bound me for
five years. I could not break it, and three years
had yet to expire. Those three years, Inez, you
have shared with me; have been the sunlight of
my existence; have tended to make me a better
man. To-day my term of office expires, and I am
released from my oath.”

“To-day, Ronald, dear Ronald!” cried Inez, in
a transport of joy; “and you will leave this place
then, will you not?”

“Ah! Inez, that is what troubles me. To-night
a leader must be chosen. By a law which with
us is as unchangeable as those of the Medes and
Persians, if one of our band be chosen without a
dissenting vote, to the office of chief, he is bound
to accept. If but one vote be cast against him he
can act his pleasure—two-thirds of the members
present being sufficient, if in favor, to constitute
him duly elected. I fear a re-election without a
dissenting voice.”

“But can you not bribe some one to vote against
you?”

“The offer, Inez, is punishable with death. No!
I must bide the result, and that result I fear. I
would that I could be released and left to retire to
some secluded spot in quiet to enjoy the company
of my own dear Inez. But I am a child of fate
and must submit to the decree of destiny. If I am
again elected, as I said before, I fear I shall, in my
official capacity, be compelled to act in a manner
foreign to my present feelings. Besides, we have
of late been very inactive, and there has been dissatisfaction
expressed in regard to it by some of
the members. Already preparations are being
made for an attack on a rich planter, whose estate
lying in Tennessee, borders on the Mississippi in
a manner favorable to our design; and I, as captain
of the banditti, must head the expedition.”

“Alas! Ronald,” sighed Inez, sorrowfully.

“Alas! Inez,” returned Ronald, “that fate
should will it. Ah! fate! fate! Without there,
ho! who knocks?” This was addressed to some
one in the Outer Cave, who had given the signal
for the chief, by three distinct raps on the wall.

“The presence of our captain is needed,” was
the reply.

“I come,” returned Ronald; and pressing his
lips once more to those of Inez, he hastily arose
and quitted the apartment. Inez gazed after him
in silence for a time; and then bending over her
guitar, sung a low, sweet, mournful strain.

2. CHAPTER II.

The night succeeding the day in which we have
introduced the reader into the grand rendezvous
of the banditti, was densely dark. Clouds low and
heavy canopied the heavens and veiled the light
of moon and stars. To add to the gloom without,
was a thick fog and drizzly rain, which completely
forbade all objects to the eye, unless aided by
artificial light. Within the larger cave, running
through its centre, was a row of torches, whose
red, flickering glare gave each thing a somewhat
sombre and fantastical appearance. Near the farther
end stood a group of four figures, coarsely
habited, whose large statures and brawny limbs
gave evidence of great animal power. Their features,
by the light of the torches, were anything
but preposessing, and varied in expression only by
the inner workings of fierce passions. They were
evidently on some exciting topic, for their gesticulations
were quick and fierce, their language low
and energetic, occasionally mingled with a guttural
oath, which, like the distant sound of thunder,
told of the accumulating storm of passion ere
long to burst in fury on some devoted head. Neither
of them wore coat or vest; but a coarse shirt
covered their shoulders, and being entirely open
in front, left their broad, bronzed bosoms free.
With the exception of one, their muscular arms
were bare; this exception being doubtless caused
by an accident, as the owner carried his arm in a
sling. Around each waist passed a belt, in which,
convenient to the hand, were placed pistols, knives
and daggers, ready for use at any moment. For
some time the conversation, as we have said, was
low and hurried; but at length a voice, as though
passion had got the better of prudence, exclaimed
somewhat loudly:

“Hang me, but they shall both die! I—”

“Hush, fool!” interrupted another; “would ye
spoil all with your imprudence? We may be
overheard,” he added, in a lower tone, and again
the voices died away to a murmur. Leaving them
to the plotting of their own dark deeds, we will
now turn our attention to another part of the cave.

We have previously mentioned, that to enter
this retreat, you must descend abruptly some fifteen
feet. This was done by means of a ladder,
which could be removed at a moment's notice. At
the foot of this ladder, day and night, paced a sentinel,
whose imperious orders were to admit no
one, not even the chief himself, without the password
and countersign; and furthermore, should

any individual, be he chief or not, persist in advancing
without giving both pass-word and countersign,
after being three times warned of the
consequences, it should be the duty of the sentinel
to fire on said person with intent to take life;
in failure whereof, or being found asleep on his
post, his own life was the forfeit. For farther
safety against a sudden attack, was a trap door exactly
under the entrance, so constructed, that by
touching a secret spring it would fly open and
leave an aperture some fifty feet in depth, at the
bottom of which were sharp stones, so placed that
no living body could fall on them from above and
survive the shock.

At the foot of the ladder mentioned, on the
evening in question, paced the sentinel, with the
steady gait and regular wheel of an old soldier—
bearing on his shoulder a rifle. For some minutes
nothing was heard but the murmur of the voices
already spoken of, and his own measured tread.
At length a sound, like the plash of an oar, fell
upon his ear. Suddenly pausing, he bent his head
forward in a listening attitude; and then, as if satisfied
all was right, resumed his walk. But little
time elapsed ere the sound of oars was heard distinctly,
and the hum of voices from without. Directly
came a sound like the striking of an oar
three times flatwise upon the water, when the
sentinel paused, and in a quick, sharp voice, sung
out:

“Heta benare?”[1]

“Ele lio!”[2] was the answer.

“Come forward and give the pass and countersign!”

A figure instantly stood in the mouth of the
cave, crossed his arms on his breast, drew a
dagger from his belt, passed it across his neck,
touched the point to his heart, and returned it;
all of which was done with a rapid motion, uttering,
at the same time, the pass-word: “Eliona!”

“All right—descend!” returned the sentinel;
and as the figure passed down, another stood in
the entrance, went through the same ceremony,
and was followed in quick succession by some
fifty others. At length the signal was given that
all had entered, and the last comer took up his
position as sentinel on the outside of the cave,
while the other kept his round within as usual.
The group we have mentioned previously, on
the entrance of the new comers dispersed and
mingled with them. For some ten minutes there
was a general hum of voices, engaged on different
topics, when suddenly Ronald came forth from
the Chieftain's Chamber, and all was silent. With
a dignified step he proceeded to and mounted the
platform or stand, where he was greeted with three
loud, hearty cheers. As he listened to this spontaneous
tribute to his popularity, his dark eye
flashed, a look of pride shot across his stern, dark
features, and raising his hand to command silence,
he thus addressed the assemblage:

“Gentlemen and brothers:—To me, I must confess,
the present moment is a proud one; for it revives
the time when, with one universal voice as
it were, you proclaimed me your captain—gave
me, a stranger, your confidence; which you are
aware, as well as myself, was no less than placing
your lives at my disposal; and shows that your
confidence in me is still unshaken. Five years
ago, this night, I was elected your chief; in doing
which you made my simplest word an imper
ative law. That you should confer at a venture
such honor, such absolute rule, on myself, on one
you had never even proved, was, and remains to
this day with me a matter of surprise and mystery.
What I had done previously to merit your
confidence, I know not; but I felt at that moment,
gentlemen, that as you considered me worthy
to govern you, I would throw the whole
strength of my mind, would concentrate my whole
thoughts upon one theme, which should be for
your prosperity; and to prove, if possible, your
confidence not misplaced. That I have succeeded,
I feel in the welcome sound of your glad voices.”
He paused, and a universal shout echoed through
the cave.

“For five years,” he resumed, “I have been your
leader; and by this means, as you are well aware,
have made myself an outlaw, and a price has been
set on the head of the bandit chief. That I do not
fear being betrayed—that I do not fear, notwithstanding
this, to mingle in society, even where
danger is the most apparent—you, gentlemen,
from my actions, can bear ample witness: but,
gentlemen, in regard to this matter for the future,
I would ask a favor.

“You are aware, at least most of you, that three
years ago I married Inez Orlandi—a lady of noble
descent, whose self-sacrificing love was such that
she chose life with me, a bandit, rather than a
higher destiny—or at least what the world would
term a higher—with another. Since then, gentlemen,
as you have doubtless perceived, I have
never been the same being—have never taken the
same interest in the rough sports of our wild life.
To-night you again choose a leader for another
five years; and the favor I would ask of you
is, that you will exempt me from your choice.
Let a division of all our spoils be made, and let
me, gentlemen, retire into private life. It is the
wish, save your prosperity, nearest my heart; and
I await your answer.” Again he paused, and the
cave was silent as the hall of death; not even so
much as a whisper relieved the stillness. Each
appeared taken by surprise, and awaiting the answer
of his neighbor.

Ronald cast a hurried glance over the assemblage,
and read in their grave and saddened countenances,
as one used to reading the thoughts
of the heart by the features, that he would meet
with opposition in this respect, even from those
who loved him best; that save him there was
no one in whom they would be united; that, in
short, he was the man of their choice, without
whom disorganization must take place. There
is, in all, who possess strong feelings, an innate
pride in being thought the first in his profession
—even though that profession be to gamble or
steal; a secret satisfaction in knowing that in his
line he is popular, and feeling himself that he excels.
Such thoughts, such feelings, were busy in
the breast of Ronald, as his eye ran over the
group; and pride and regret were struggling within
him for the mastery. Pride, that his services
were held in such high esteem by those who had
tried him—regret, that he could not retire in seclusion
to enjoy life with his own loved Inez.
But the struggle was but momentary. Pride was,
perhaps, his ruling passion; and even here pride
prevailed. He could not look upon their earnest,
saddened faces, at his loss, unmoved; and
with an animated eye, and a flush on his strongly
marked features, that gave him an almost noble
look, in a voice of some emotion, he said.

“Gentlemen, you speak not, and yet I am answered;

ay, loudly answered, in the silence that
reigns around me—in the sad faces of those who
were wont to be joyous in my success;—and, gentlemen,
let me tell you, whatever may have been
my feelings in asking, I am truly proud of your
answer. Yes! gentlemen, you have decided my
fate! Henceforth I am with you—with my life
will I serve you!”

It would be impossible to describe the scene
of joyous excitement that followed this announcement.
We shall not attempt it. Suffice, that
never before had the cave echoed such prolonged
and deafening cheers; and even Inez, who sat
with her head bent forward, in the Inner Cave,
raised it with a look of pride, although she felt
her fondest hopes were forever destroyed. When
the tumult had a little subsided, so that he could
be heard, Ronald resumed:

“Gentlemen, let us to business! I pray you
be seated, that we may proceed in order. Piketon,
you will call the roll!” As he spoke, each
quietly took his seat on one of the benches before
spoken of as ranging along the walls, with the
exception of the one called Piketon, who stepped
forward and mounted the platform beside the captain.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular
man, with tolerably good features,—an eye black
and piercing, dark hair, Roman nose—of a look
rather stern than villainous, and some thirty
years of age. There was, too, about him an expression
of intelligence superior to most of those
present. As he came upon the stand, Ronald
handed him a paper, containing the names of the
members, which he called off in a clear, distinct
voice, pricking those from whom no answer was
returned.

“How many present?” enquired Ronald.

Piketon ran his eye over the list and answered:
“Sixty-seven, excluding the sentinels.”

“Who stands on duty at the cave?”

“Moorehead and Farrar.”

“Morris and Parker guard the Entrance,” returned
Ronald, “which adds four, leaving absent
twenty-one: am I right?”

Piketon again ran his eye over the list, counting
the names pricked, and answered: “You are, captain.”

“Four of the absent—Lemly, Davis, Sulton
and Vance—you may strike off altogether,” said
Ronald, sadly:—“they are written on the roll of
eternity! Alas! poor fellows! they met with untimely
fates—the first two shot, the last two
hung—a warning that we should be prudent, or
like fates may be our own. Fourteen of the absent
I can account for;” and he mentioned their
names. “They are scattered throughout the United
States—two in New Orleans, five in New York,
one in Boston, two in Philadelphia, two in Baltimore,
and two in Cincinnati. They are on secret
service, acting under my instructions, and with
whom I am holding regular correspondence; by
which means I am informed of every thing that
tends to the benefit of our society—such as the
description of travelers bound for the West, who
are supposed to carry money, and the best method
of obtaining it; which, as you are aware, gentlemen,
we have not unfrequently done by gambling.
Many of you have, at different times, expressed
wonder that I knew so well how to choose
my victims; and I have deemed it no more than
right, on the present occasion, to explain; for I
feel you are all entitled to my confidence.”

A murmur of delighted surprise, at their captain's
ingenuity, now ran among the assemblage,
and ended in a hearty cheer, with: “Long live
Ronald Bonardi!”

“Great astonishment, I ween,” continued the
captain, with a smile, “would some of the nabobs
feel, did they know, when sitting down to a quiet
game of cards with me, a fellow-traveler, that
they would rise completely fleeced by Ronald Bonardi,
a bandit chief. But come,” he added, turning
to Piketon, “let us finish our business. There
are three names not yet accounted for: you will
call them!”

Again Piketon scanned the list closely, and after
a moment's pause, said: “The missing are Garrish,
Riley, and David the Jew.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Ronald, pressing his nether
lip between his teeth, as though struck by a sudden
thought:—“The Jew! not here? I know not
why, but I half suspect Ben David meditates foul
play.”

“And I'll swear to 't, cap'en,” spoke a gruff
voice, from one of the benches.

An electric thrill appeared to run through the
assemblage, and several of the party sprang to
their feet, grasping the handles of their weapons
as though to draw them.

“Pray, be seated, gentlemen,” said Ronald, waiving
his hand, “and let the accuser stand forth.”
The request was immediately obeyed; and the individual
previously mentioned as having his arm
in a sling, stepped forward. He was a man of
large frame, mostly bone and muscle, having a
head much too large for his body, with features
coarse and repulsive—partly covered by a rough,
dirt-brown beard—a large nose, and an eye every
way villainous. His hair was of a similar color
to his beard—was long, coarse and matted; and
he was, besides, stoop-shouldered and bow-legged;
in short, a man where the animal was wholly predominant.
His age might be forty.

“Ha! Curdish,” continued Ronald, eyeing him
steadily, “is it you, his friend, that accuse him?”

“I don't exactly reckon myself his friend,”
growled Curdish, with an oath; “though I have
did him some favors.”

“By reason of which you have doubtless suffered
some of late,” added Ronald, pointing to his
arm. “How happened it, Jack?”

Curdish glanced at his arm, and his features
grew more fierce and his eye more villainous, as
he replied: “Well, yes, I got a little hurt thar', in
a scrimmage on his account; but—” and he uttered
a horrible oath—“I'll be even with the rascals
yit, or I aint what I used to be.”

“If all I learn is true, Curdish, you deserved
what you got, and more!” returned Ronald, knitting
his brows, and eyeing him sternly; “but of
this another time. Of what do you accuse the
Jew? Beware, now, of your accusation! for if
false, you know the penalty.”

“I can't read, and I don't know how the law
runs,” said Curdish, somewhat doggedly.

“I will inform you then,” rejoined Ronald; and
stooping down, he unlocked a small trap-door in
the floor of the ptatform on which he stood, took
therefrom a parchment, turned to the light, examined
it a moment, and read as follows:

“Sec. II, Art. IX. If any member shall be
known to give any evidence against another member
that is not strictly true, or which may be
proved to be false, he shall suffer death, as provided
under the Black Law, in Article XV of Section
I: which is,” added Ronald, “to be publicly
shot by the captain of the band, and his body
thrown to wild beasts. You understand the law

on this point now, Curdish, so proceed! Of what
do you accuse the Jew?”

Curdish appeared somewhat staggered at the
consequences of a false statement, and his face
grew a shade paler, as he replied: “I'm not exactly
ready to prove what I's going to say,
cap'en.”

“Then you had better not say it,” answered
Ronald. “You can tell me of your suspicions
privately, and I will take measures to learn
whether or no they be well founded. You may
resume your place; and I trust, for the future,
ere you offer to swear to a thing, you will at least
know yourself of what you intend to swear, or
the terminus may not be agreeable. As I said,
you may resume your place and take part in the
business of the evening; after which you will
consider yourself under arrest, as there are other
matters of which I wish to question you!”

“But cap'en—”

“No more!” said Ronald, sternly, waiving his
hand. Curdish bit his lips and slowly retired.—

`Gentlemen,” continued the captain, “trust
me, all shall be properly looked to; and if I find a
traitor among us”—he set his teeth close and laid
his hand upon a pistol in his belt—“by Heaven,
he dies! But to our business. You will now proceed,
gentlemen, to the election of your captain.
Let each vote for him he deems most capable and
worthy of holding the office. Piketon, you will
go to each member present and take down the
name of his choice.” Piketon obeyed, and in a
few minutes returned to the stand and said:

“Ronald Bonardi is re-elected captain of this band,
for the term of five years, without a dissenting
vote.” The announcement was followed by three
hearty cheers, and “Long live Ronald Bonardi!”

When the noise had again subsided, Bonardi
said: “Contrary to my wish, gentlemen, when I
came before you this evening, I find that I have
been unanimously chosen your leader for another
term. I shall endeavor to fulfil my duties faithfully;
and, gentlemen, let me add, strictly. I fear,
by some evidences which have of late come before
me”—and he glanced at Curdish—“that I have
been heretofore too lenient—too negligent. I
shall make the future atone for the past; and whoever
among you breaks a law, though he be my
bosom friend, I swear to you he shall suffer the
penalty—even though that penalty be his death
by my hands! Let each and all of you bear this
in mind and seriously reflect upon it.”

“We, gentlemen, are outlaws; we war upon society;
but, mark me, we war only upon the rich
and avaricious! Most of us have had causes for
forsaking that society, those laws which govern
the mass. Those causes have been various; and
yet, in the end, they almost invariably resolve
themselves into one cause; which is, that society
and its laws did not protect, did not do us justice.
But notwithstanding we separate from the mass,
we must have laws of our own; and by those laws
we must abide. Notwitstanding we are outlaws,
warring against the nabobs of the world; against
those who, had they the power, would trample us
under their feet; let us not forget that we are men,
and that we have no right to touch the humble,
the innocent, the defenceless. No! whatever we
do, let us bear in mind that they are exempt from
our encroachments. But above all, gentlemen,
under no circumstances whatever let our hands be
raised against women! Let them be sacred in our
eyes! Let us remember that what they are, so
are, or were, our mothers, our sisters and, with
many of you I can add, our wives! Gentlemen,
I ask this of you as men, as brothers, with whose
fate my own is now linked! I ask it of you in
formal declaration! I ask you to swear it, by rising
to your feet!” He paused, and almost simultaneously
the assemblage arose. Some few were
rather tardy—among whom was Curdish—but all
finally stood upon their feet.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” resumed Ronald; “it is
enough; you have all sworn, and it is now become
a law; and a law let him break who dares!—for by
all I hold sacred, I swear to you, whoever shall
dare to violate it, I will slay, so help me God!”—
and his close shut teeth, his compressed lips and
flashing eyes, as he gazed on his audience, told
them it was no idle threat.

“As I find, gentlemen,” continued he, “in tending
to my various business affairs, that I require
some one to fill my place when absent, I have concluded
to appoint me a lieutenant, whom you will
all respect and obey as myself. He is one well
known among you, well tried and proved to be
worthy of the responsible office, and I trust you
will approve my choice. Piketon,” added he, turning
to that individual, “henceforth you are second
in command; let your duty be done faithfully!”

A prolonged cheer of satisfaction responded to
this announcement. Piketon, much embarrassed,
was about to reply, but Ronald stopped him with:

“Nay, no remarks;” and approaching, he put
upon his finger a ring, adding: “This, Piketon,
is your badge of office. Gentlemen, you will all
remember it, there is but one other like it, and
you will all respect either whenever seen.” Turning
to Piketon, in a low voice not heard by the
others, he continued: “You will order Garrish,
Riley and David under arrest, to meet here as soon
as possible. If they dispute your authority, show
them the ring. If they refuse then to comply,
make their lives the penalty! If you choose, take
with you some trusty followers.”

“Your orders, captain, shall be obeyed to the
letter,” returned the lieutenant, respectfully.

Ronald again turned to the audience. “Gentlemen,
the attack we have of late been planning
on the Tennessee planter, I shall not touch upon
to-night. It may be advantageous and it may not.
I will think more upon it, and mayhap something
better will take its place. Is there any other business
before the meeting?”

Piketon whispered in his ear.

“Ah! true, true,” he resumed, “I had forgotten;
where is he?”

“He waits in a boat on the creek,” answered
Piketon.

“Gentlemen, John Webber wishes to become a
member of our fraternity. You know him, some
of you have tried him, know you ought why we
should not admit him?”

“We do not,” answered several voices.

“Enough! Moorehead, give Farrar the signal
to admit Webber!”

The sentinel within made a low peculiar whistle,
which was answered from without, and directly
a figure stood in the entrance, gave the pass
and countersign, and descended the ladder. He
was very wet, for it still continued raining; and as
he came forward, the torches threw their lurid
glare upon features which a close observer might
have seen were pale from excitement. Piketon
stepped forward and conducted him to the stand.
Bonardi addressed him:

“Webber, I understand you wish to join our
fraternity. You of course are not ignorant that in

doing so you are joining a band outlawed by society;
that in doing so you become an outlaw also,
and place yourself in a position not envied by
those who have received from society proper treatment.
What object may have induced you to this
step, it is not my purpose to enquire; enough that
you have desired to take it, knowing that you are
becoming a brother with those whose deeds by the
world are considered crimes—crimes too, which
are punished with imprisonment and sometimes
death. You are doubtless aware also, that in joining
us you are binding yourself to us in a manner
that makes your life no longer your own, but a
property of the whole; ready to be sacrificed in
defence of the whole, should necessity require it, at
any moment. As you are bound to us, so are we
bound to you; and if in difficulty, we are bound as
a body, if possible, to rescue you, even at the peril
of our own lives. In joining us you become a
partner in all our spoils, in all our dangers, in all
our triumphs, in all our troubles. These matters
of course you understand?”

Webber bowed.

“It now only remains, then, for me to administer
the oath. You will please hold up your right
hand!”

Webber complied.

“By this token of assent, you, John Webber,
in the presence of Almighty God, and these witnesses,
solemnly swear that you will devote your
life to us and our cause, so long as we remain a
band; that you will abide by all our laws, stand
ready to uphold them under all difficulties, under
all circumstances whatever; in failure whereof,
you ardently pray us to take your life as a sacrifice,
and the Author of your being to condemn you
to eternal torments forever and ever!—in further
confirmation of which, you will kneel, repeat this
oath and sign our constitution.”

These requisitions being complied with, Ronald
continued: “You are now a brother;” and after a
pause, added emphatically: “Forget not your
oath! Piketon, you will read our laws and bylaws,
that he may not plead ignorance should he
transgress, which I pray God he may not do! for
I have sworn to inflict the penalty set to each law,
on him who breaks it; and I now again swear that
I will keep my oath!—and, Piketon, you will add
the law of this evening, regarding women, the innocent
and defenceless.”

After this had been gone through with—occupying
some half hour more—Ronald said: “Gentlemen,
for your attention this evening I thank
you. Our business is now closed. What, ho!
Cyntha!—the wine!” and as the slave came forth
from the Chieftain's Chamber, he added: “Gentlemen,
make yourselves happy; there is wine,
and cards for those who wish to play; but I pray
you be as quiet as possible, and no quarreling!—
When through with your pastime, return peaceably
to your homes, and when anything of importance
occurs you shall be duly warned. I shall
now retire. Piketon, you will preside in my
place;” and with a graceful bow, Ronald entered
the Chieftain's Chamber and joined his own beloved
Inez, who was sitting expectant.

All passed off quietly, and ere daylight most of
the party were on their way to their several places
of abode, which were scattered throughout the adjoining
country—many of them being regular settlers.
Some few, however, remained—having
partaken rather too freely of the wine; but with
the exception of Curdish and four others retained
as sentinels, all departed on the following day.

3. CHAPTER III.

It may be said and with truth, that the heart in
a great measure governs the vision, and gives to
objects coming before the eye their light and dark
phases. But few stop to reason and realize how
much this is the case in our every day life. One
day every thing we behold is bright and joyous,
another day dark and gloomy,—and yet the same
heavens are above us, the same earth at our feet,
the same sounds of tuneful nature around us.—
One day every person we meet wears a cheerful
smile, another day all seem to frown; and we are
apt to think, like the man, who, becoming intoxicated,
regretted that all his friends were so, and
wondered much the very trees should keep them
company, while he walked perfectly sober; we
are apt, we say, to think all others at fault, when
in fact the whole change lies with ourself, and
the discord arises from our own heart-strings being
out of tune.

The transition from gloom to joy is oftentimes
rapid; and when so, always exhilerating. It
gives elasticity to all our movements, and we feel
running through our whole being a thrill of indiscribable
pleasure, almost amounting to intoxication.
Such were the feelings pervading the different
members, now constituting the family of Webber,
some ten days from the preceding events.—
The day was beautiful; one of those that ever
seem to harmonize best with the upreaching poetry
of a rejoicing heart. One of those days that
seem to let Heaven down a little nearer to us—
making us feel as though we could love every
thing we see, rejoice in every sound we hear.—
The sun rose in splendor and poured his bright
beams through a deep blue sky, where not a cloud
floated to intercept his rays even for a moment,
like a young heart free from the cloud-spots of
a yet untried world. The air was soft, and as it
gently floated along, stirring the leaves and kissing
the flowers, it stole the perfume of the latter
and bore it on to refresh all who should inhale it.
The little birds had not forgotten it was a joyous
day, and their sweet songs went up in gentle chorus
to their Maker, filling the air with melody.—
In the cottage of Webber we have said there was
cheerfulness on every countenance. Each moved
with an elastic step and bounding heart, and each
in their own way felt happy.

Perhaps we never experience happiness equal to
that which succeeds a time of gloom and desponcy;
and the reader will remember we left the family
of Webber in gloom, caused by the sudden
illness of one beloved by all. It is natural to infer
then, that the change which had taken place
in the feelings of all, sprung from the change for
the better which had taken place in the sufferer.
Such was the fact. For nine days Rufus had
lain in a state so critical that life and death might
be said to be in an equal contest for the mastery.
Night and day a watcher had stood by his bedside,
fearful to turn away for a moment, lest the
slightest negligence should prove fatal. For several
days and nights his mother never quitted his
side—watching him with all the deep anguish a
mother's heart can feel for one she loves, when
beholding that one racked by pains she would give
her own life to alleviate—and then leaving only
because worn out nature forced her to repose.—

But her place had been supplied by one, who, if
she did not love him so deeply, at least loved him
with a tender sister's love. Yes, the noble hearted,
gentle Emily Nevance had stood by his side,
like some angel of the Spirit Land awaiting to
bear him to the abode of the blest; and what is
strange too, he had ever seemed more at ease, had
ever remained more quiet when she was present.
He had been at times wild and delirious, and for
hours would rave incoherently when she was absent,
occasionally uttering a detached sentence so
as to be understood: “God, it is my doom! Emily
—never more: 'Tis past—tis past!”—from which
those who heard him could glean nothing, save
that there was some deep trouble on his mind, some
inward working they could not fathom,—but
strange, we say, it was, that when Emily was
present, although he did not seem to recognise
her, he ever remained quiet; and sometimes a
wan smile would steal over his pale, thin features,
like a faint ray of sunlight lingering upon some
decaying structure. What was there in her presence
that could so effect the invalid? Could it be
that her gentle spirit had action upon his?—that
there was a secret communion, unknown to either,
between them? It had been noticed by Emily,
had been noticed by others, and had been commented
on by the different members of the household—among
whom we must reckon our former
acquaintances, Bernard and Tyrone, who still remained.
It had been noticed too by the physician;
but noticed only as a fact he could not account
for. There was a cause for it undoubtedly;
and perhaps one, the father of the sick one, had
vaguely divined that cause; but if so, he told it not,
and with the rest, even with Emily herself, it yet
remained a mystery.

The evening previous to the opening of this
chapter had been an eventful one. Nine days of
anxiety had passed wearily away, when the physician
foresaw that a crisis was at hand which
must terminate in life or death. He had, as before
stated, marked the effect of Emily's presence
on the invalid, and consequently gave orders that in
this trial none should be present but herself—no,
not even the mother. The order had been obeyed;
but oh! who can tell that mother's feelings, when
she knew that a few hours must decide the fate
of her darling child—perhaps to terminate in death
—and she not be with him to gaze upon his treasured
features, nor press her lips again to his in
life? Oh! what years of agony were in those few
hours of suspense!

On the evening in question then,—the ninth
from his attack—Emily took her position, alone,
by the side of Rufus, and watched him with painful
feelings. He had sunk into a deep sleep, a
sleep almost like death itself, for scarcely was his
breathing perceptible. She knew from that
sleep he would never wake, or wake to life free
from danger. All was silent, as though death
were already there. A dim light, standing some
distance back, gave a twilight shade to the whole
apartment; and she could barely discern the outline
of his pale, marble-like features, which she
sometimes fancied were already stiffening in
death. As she occasionally gazed upon him, an
indescribable awe crept over her. Was he dead—
had his bright spirit gone forever? she would
sometimes question herself; and then the thought,
if such was the case, what agony would be hers to
witness in beholding the anguish of his mother,—
who with the rest of the occupants were waiting
in gloomy silence the signal from her to weep or
rejoice—made her feel more gloomy and depressed.

Thus passed two hours—two long trying hours
—and yet no change; the sufferer had moved not,
and she began to fancy his spirit had passed quietly
away. With a trembling hand she raised the
light, approached, and held it near his features.—
All was calm—he did not seem to breathe. She
bent down her head, but could hear no sound indicating
life. “He is gone,” she thought, and
tears of anguish filled her eyes; and as she raised
her head, a drop fell on his cheek. It was nothing
of itself, and yet, as it had been the Promethean
spark, the invalid started, drew a long breath,
opened his eyes, fixing them intently upon Emily,
who stood perfectly motionless, fearful lest in his
weak state a sudden move might prove fatal to
him. He gazed upon her with a sign of recognition
in his intelligent features, and then passed his
hand across his eyes, as one assuring himself
whether he be dreaming or not. Again he gazed
upon her intently, and a bright flush mounted his
cheek, as he said:

“Emily, is it you, or a spirit I behold?”

“Thank God, he is safe!” ejaculated Emily,
clasping her hands and looking upward, while tears
of joy stole down her sweet features; and bending
over, she pressed her lips to his forehead.

“O, Emily, is this reality!” exclaimed Rufus,
with a thrill of joy lighting up his countenance.—
“O say it is not a dream!”

“It is no dream, Rufus,” said she, looking tenderly
upon him.

“Then I have been dreaming,” returned he, gazing
slowly around the apartment. “I must have
slept long, and yet it is still dark. I do not remember
coming into this room. How came I
here, and why were you watching me?”

“You have been ill, Rufus, very ill. For nine
days you have stood on the verge of the grave!”

“Ill—nine days!” repeated he, looking incredulously,
and placing his hand to his head, as though
to collect his thoughts: “I do feel weak.” As he
took his hand down, it caught his eye, and starting
at the sight of its thin, bony appearance, he murmured:
“I have indeed been ill. But where was
I taken, Emily? I remember nothing.”

“At the door here, just as you had returned
from a search for me.”

“Search for you, Emily!” repeated he, earnestly,
partly raising himself in bed—“a search for
you! Then it was no dream, Emily, it was no
dream! Ha!” added he, pressing one hand to his
forehead, while a look of mental anguish hovered
on his features: “I—I remember now, it was no
dream! Oh, God! that it were anything but reality!—Oh!
Emily—” he paused and fell back
on the pillow with a groan.

“Why, Rufus, what means this?” exclaimed
Emily, in alarm.

“I must not tell you—it was nothing—it is
over now,” he replied, faintly.

“If you had fears for me, you perceive I have
safely returned,” said she, soothingly.

“But with another!” added he emphatically.

A sudden thought flashed across her brain, but
instantly discarding it, she rejoined: “True, with
another; but why should that trouble you, Rufus?
I was with a friend, whom you know and
esteem. I went forth with Edward Merton and
returned with him. What see you wrong in that,
Rufus?”

Ero he could reply, the door opened and his
mother softly entered. She had heard voices in

conversation—his voice—and her heart would let
her wait no longer.

“O, mother, dear mother!” cried Rufus, as he
saw her approaching.

“God of mercy!—he lives! he lives!” shrieked
she; and rushing forward, she clasped him to her
bosom, raised her eyes to Heaven, and poured out
her heart in a prayer of thanksgiving to the Supreme
Ruler. Webber was next to enter, and
with tearful eyes he pressed his lips to the pale
cheek of Rufus and uttered: “God be praised!”
The physician followed Webber, accompanied by
Bernard and Tyrone; but all three paused as they
entered the apartment—which we should have
mentioned was the same from which Curdish
escaped—and gazed upon the scene with heartfelt
emotion.

We shall not dwell longer here; suffice, that
that night was one of rejoicing, and the next
morning one, as we have shown, well calculated
to add to the joy of lightened hearts. Each rose
refreshed in body and mind; and the invalid, as
he gazed forth through the open windows, heard
the song of birds, and felt the soft air upon his
wasted features with a thrill of delight.

After paying Rufus a morning visit, and finding
him gradually recovering, Emily,—who on
his account had of late closely confined herself
to the house—and as the morning was so fine
too—could not resist the inclination of walking
abroad to taste the fresh air, and view nature in
all her loveliness; for she was one whose soul
was ever open to such delights. Shortly after,
she stole quietly away; and taking a path which
led through the farm of Webber to the southward,
she made her way with a light step toward
a gentle eminence, some half a mile distant,
which overlooked a beautiful portion of the country,
and where she was wont to spend many a
pleasant hour in meditating upon the handiwork
of the Supreme Being. There was a deep, inward
joy in her heart as she tripped along the
winding path; now beside fields of grain, struggling
up as though to regain what they had lost
by the devastating tornado; now through tall,
rank grass, where occasionally a flower might be
seen peeping forth, like a modest maiden from her
lattice bower; now through bushes rejoicing in
beautiful foliage, where the little birds made their
nests and sung their songs:—there was deep, inward
joy in her heart, we say, as she tripped
along; a sweet, dreamy sensation of delight, such
as she had not felt before for a long time.

The mind of Emily was one of those deep, pure,
earnest, sensitive ones, that in a measure take their
coloring from those around them, as the chameleon
from the objects with which it comes in contact.
Not that she was fickle, vacilating, governed
only by the opinions of those whose words
fell last upon her ear: no, by no means; for in
this respect she could be swayed only by the best
of reasoning; but she was one of those who are
full of soul and feeling, and she was acted upon
by the feelings of others. Naturally of buoyant
spirits, full of vivacity and cheerfulness, she delighted
to see every one around her in the same
mood—every one happy; and she could not rejoice,
could not be gay, where she knew another
was in grief, or any way in trouble. Her mind
was quick, energetic, but full of sympathy; and
the latter noble virtue was, perhaps, her ruling
passion. Hence, while she knew that one of the
family with whom she had been reared,—to
whom, for their kindness, she felt she owed such
a debt of gratitude, and one too whom she loved
with all the earnest affection of a sister—was
lying in such a critical state, with death staring
him in the face, she could not feel happy—could
not remove the weight of anguish that lay like
lead upon her heart. But now the case was altered.
With his return to reason and convalescence,
returned her buoyant, joyous spirits,—
rising just in proportion to their long and severe
depression. It was a day too, above all others,
that she loved, and every thing seemed to conspire
to make her happy.

Thus, for a time, as we have said, she tripped
along with a gay air—gazing with delight upon
the scene around her,—occasionally stopping to
pluck a flower that pleased her fancy, to be woven
into a garland for the sick one, with whom as
yet her gentle thoughts were mostly occupied.
Suddenly her mind turned into another channel—a
shade stole over her sweet features, and
her step grew tardy. The cause was a natural
and simple one. By one of those sudden flashes
which an active temperament is subject to, the
night of the storm and her capture rose up before
her; and for a moment all the wild feelings of
that terrible time came back with the vividness
of reality; and what seems strange too, this had
never occurred before. 'Tis true she had thought
of it at times; but then her thoughts had been
vague and transitory,—for grief was at her heart
for the welfare of one she too much esteemed to
think of herself. But now the case was different,—there
were no strong emotions to throw
aside those scenes of alarm and terror, and they
came back with startling force. She saw again
the old hut, where she and Merton had remained
during that terrific storm; she saw the old woman
standing before her, with her wild looks,
rapid gesticulations—heard her prophetic words
of warning, and felt a kind of awe creeping over
her. She remembered her feelings too, while going
through that lonely pass—her seizure by Riley,
and wild ride to the river—her interview with
the old Jew—her despair, when pinioned in the
grasp of his villainous subordinates; and, finnally,
the sweet charm of her release by the one of all
others whom she loved.

As her train of thoughts led Emily to think of
Edward, she dwelt for a time upon his noble,
generous nature—his winning ways, and deep,
ardent love for her; love which she felt—might
return—and both be happy, but for the disparity
in their positions as viewed by the world. She
saw him an only heir of a rich, aristocratic father,
whom she had every reason to believe would oppose
any other than a wealthy alliance for his
son. She feared too, even if consent were gained
to their union, the opposition Edward would have
to encounter, in this respect, would tend to weaken
those ties of affection which now bound him
so strongly to her, and make him regret, in secret
at least—for she believed him of too generous and
noble a nature to show it openly—that he had ever
sought her hand. Her mind was one of those
intuitive ones that pierce below the polished surface
and read the human heart as it is, with its
good and bad parts commingled; and she felt,
however much she might love him,—and love
him she certainly did—she must, as a duty to him,
in securing his happiness, discourage his suit. As
these thoughts came up before her, with all the
force of her good sense of propriety, her features
grew sad, and her head drooped with a pensive
air.

And then Emily's mind reverted to herself—
her humble condition—a dependant upon the
charity of others. Who was she? She had often
heard Webber relate the story of how she became
an inmate of his house—a member of his family—
and there was a mystery about it which troubled
her. Perhaps she was of low birth, an offspring
of guilt, and consequently no mate for Edward
Merton, even setting wealth aside; and this
reflection but made her feelings more sad and painful.
From this her mind again returned to her
capture, and the conversation she had overheard
between Riley and the Jew, regarding herself.
She remembered Riley's assertion that there was
some secret connected with her birth, and the
answer of the Jew by asking him how he had
found that out; and also Riley's remark that he
would make money by marrying her, by which a
ray of hope sprung up that she might be of good
descent, perhaps one of a wealthy family. And
then her wonder how the Jew, if such was the
case, should know any thing of this; and if not,
why he should wish to seize upon her person.
Perhaps he had got hold of proofs—some paper or
papers which would establish rights wrongfully
wrested from her. She had heard of such things
happening to others—might they not happen to
herself? And then the mysterious note Webber
had received some five years ago, accompanied
with money, charging him to educate her for any
station in society:—what did that mean? Was
there not some connection between that and the
knowledge possessed by the Jew? As these
thoughts came to her, overwhelmed as they were
by mystery, hope revived that some day this mystery
would be cleared up, and she perhaps would
then stand fair before the world. But then again,
how was this to be done? What probability was
there that such, even if her surmises were correct,
would ever take place? She could not but
admit to herself that, at the best, this was but a
wild speculation—a vision of the brain—a sort of
castle in the air affair, without form or substance;
in fact, but little less than an impossibility; and
again all hope of such a termination died away,
leaving her if any thing more in the dark, more
in gloom, for the faint gleam which had for a
moment shone upon her.

Thus musing to herself upon the various matters
recorded, Emily came to a rough fence,
which shut in the field of culture, and ran along
at the base of the hill or eminence previously
mentioned. The slightest incident at times is
enough to change the current of our thoughts;
and as Emily looked up at this interruption to her
progress, and marked the loveliness of every thing
around, she felt a sweet thrill of pleasure steal
through her veins, and all her gloomy feelings
emerged into an intellectual enthusiasm for the
beauties of nature. Crossing the fence, she
moved at a quickened pace up the hill, whose
brow was some hundred yards distant, and there
paused to gaze with rapture upon the beautiful
landscape spread out before her.

The scene now brought to her view was indeed
a delightful one, and one worthy of a description.
The summit of the hill itself was
shaded by a pleasant grove of trees, underneath
which were several large, flat rocks—forming to
one weary of walking various tempting seats for
repose. Beside one of these rocks was a large
old oak, which, although now fast verging to decay,
still bore on its aged limbs a goodly covering
of foliage. This, of all others, was Emily's fa
vorite spot; and after pausing for a moment, she
approached and sprang lightly upon the stone.
From this her range of vision was somewhat extended;
for being on the farther line of the hill
from her approach, she could command a view of
its base to the southward. The hill, in this direction,
was unlike its northern aspect—being more
rough and precipitous, and more densely shaded
by a growth of shrubby trees; if, in fact, they
might be allowed the appellation of trees at all.
Directly at its base, however, were some of a
larger kind, which had struggled up among rocks
and bushes, like ambitious men to overlook their
fellows. Rippling along at the roots of these,
over a rough bed, was the Maramee—a glimpse
and sound of whose limpid waters could both be
seen and heard from where Emily stood. On the
opposite side of this stream rose another hill to
about the same height—being also similar in appearance
to the one just described. Beyond this
latter, to the southward, the land was lower for a
considerable distance, so that the next object
which met the eye was the dim outline of a range
of mountains far away. To the left, or eastward,
the eye could follow the bed of the river between
these hills for something like a mile, when the
view was again cut off by a sudden turn in its
course—appearing to the observer as though the
two ridges met and formed an oval termination.
From this all trace of the opposite hill was lost;
but the one on which Emily stood could be seen
making an angle of some forty-five degrees, and
shooting off in a serpentine manner to the northeast—forming,
in fact, the same ridge, a part of
which we described in the commencement of our
story. About half way from where Emily stood
to the angle mentioned, was a smaller elevation,
bearing a few points west of north, running past
Webber's cottage, some little distance to the east,
and forming the hill from which was first descried
the approach of Bernard and Tyrone.

Turning to the west and south, the scene presented
was by far the most extended and beautiful.
A few hundred yards to the westward, the hills
or ridges we have been describing made a handsome
curve to the left, leaving the vision free
scope over rather a level country for a goodly
number of miles—now touching on a strip of
prairie, now upon a dark, heavy wood—relieved
here and there by a glimpse of some cottage,
whose light blue smoke curling slowly upward
in the morning sun gave a pleasing sensation of
domestic happiness, and whose clearings around
told that settlement and civilization were slowly
creeping into the late abodes of the savage and
wild beast. To the north, passing over the farmer-like
appearance of Webber's fields of grain,
mowing lots, pasture grounds—his orchard, garden,
dwelling, stabling—all of which caused the
eye to linger awhile, and particularly Emily's,
with a quiet sensation of pleasure,—passing over
these, we say, in a northern direction, some eight
or ten miles distant, the eye fell upon what appeared
a long narrow strip of silver; but which a close
examination would have proved to be neither
more nor less than a small portion of the deep,
dark, rapid, muddy Missouri. Occasionally,
throughout the landscape, some smaller streams
winding about here and there, appearing like
silver threads thrown carelessly upon a carpet,
added their little to the perfection of the whole.
Such, reader, is but an imperfect sketch of the
country in the vicinity of Emily's new home,
and the scene which she now gazed upon with

feelings known only to the lovers of nature and
the beautiful.

If we have failed in attempting to bring to the
view of the reader a picture of what Emily saw—
and we feel we have—for what is description after
all, but description; and how far short it falls
of the reality—of those thousand little things
which in themselves are nothing, but which are
needful in making up the whole,—if we have
failed, we say, in describing what she saw, we
utterly despair of giving the sounds she heard—
the rustling of the leaves, the murmur of the
streamlet, the humming of the insects, the singing
of the birds, the ten thousand, in fact, indescribable
voices by which nature completes her inimitable
song of harmony. But let these pass;
suffice that she saw and heard enough to hold
her too much enraptured to notice the approach
of another—a tall dark figure—who, finding her
attention so much occupied, came to a pause a few
feet distant, and deliberately folding his arms on
his breast, stood for some moments regarding her
in silence, but evidently with no ordinary feelings.

We have said he was a tall dark figure; but in
the latter adjective, dark, we have reference only
to his complexion and the expression of his features,
which were of a sinister cast. His eyes
were black, but of that peculiar black which is
most repulsive, and were shaded by thick, overhanging
brows, that gave them at all times a look
of sullen fierceness. There was nothing further
remarkable in his countenance, unless a few singularly
drawn lines near his mouth, indicative of
a determination to carry out whatever design he
might attempt, and a peculiar smile, sometimes
seen, but a smile so devilish that those who saw
never forgot it. He was young, or at least exceeded
not twenty-four years, and in person well
and even handsomely formed. His dress was
rather careless, consisting of coarse pantaloons
fastened around the waist by a leather belt—a
coarse shirt, open about the neck—a sailor-like
jacket—a light straw hat and heavy boots.

For some moments he stood regarding Emily
with a strange look—the look of one who had resolved
upon a certain result, yet was almost undetermined
how to proceed, should all not succeed
to his hopes. There was also a look of tenderness
mingled with a heavy frown, as though nature
had roused to combat two opposite passions.

Meanwhile Emily stood gazing upon the landscape
with a bright eye and pleasing smile; but
whether her thoughts were now on what she saw,
or appeared to see, or whether they had wandered
away to the one she loved, we shall not stop to
analyze; though we might, perhaps, true to nature,
premise the latter. At length she started,
as by some sudden thought, and turning a little,
started again on beholding the person we have
described. There seemed a sort of revulsion at
once in her feelings; for the blood in her cheeks
returned to her heart, leaving them pale, as though
a presentiment of trouble had came over her, and
in spite of herself she trembled. This was but
momentary however, for the next instant she was
calm; and as if half ashamed of thus betraying
herself, and the more perfectly to regain her composure,
or secrete her real thoughts, she said with
laugh:

“Well, I declare, John, I hope you are more
successful with the ladies generally, on your first
appearance, for I must own you frightened me.”

There was something in the tone of her voice
and manner of speaking, notwithstanding her
laugh and familiar language, that appeared forced
and unnatural, which John Webber—for such
the reader has doubtless divined him to be—noticed.
He had noticed too her sudden start when
she first beheld him—her paleness—her tremulous
agitation—in fact, nothing had escaped him;
but he had attributed to all these a very different
cause from the real one, and he answered accordingly:

“I did not intend to frighten you, Emily;
though I presume a pleasant surprise is not in
the end a disagreeable fright?”

“True, it is not,” answered Emily, who felt relieved
that he had not seen her repugnance to
him; for it was against her gentle disposition to
wound the feelings of any; and although there
ever had been in his nature something dark and
uncongenial with her own, a something to make
her feel reserved and oppressed in his presence,
yet she had never forgotten he was the son of her
benefactor, and had always striven to keep her
feelings under, to appear if anything more happy
than usual that he might not detect it. In
this she had over acted, as is sometimes the case;
or rather, we might say, overreached herself; for
had she shown more of her real feelings, it had
doubtless been better for her in the end—had
saved her many a bitter pang. In a word, to
make him think her not displeased in his company,
she had, without intending it, forced him to
think his company more agreeable to her than
others. Perfectly reckless in all moral principles,
careless about searching for cause, he stopped at
effect, and looked upon everything as a matter of
course. Without any distinct notions of love,
congeniality of soul, and the like, he had formed a
resolve in his own mind that Emily some day
should become his wife. A resolve with him
was almost the same thing as a certainty, for he
never counted on a failure; and having once set it
down as a fact, he rarely ever thought again upon
it, until the time came round for its accomplishment.
The resolve concerning Emily he had
made some three months after her arrival from
New York. Her manner and appearance had
struck him then as belonging to no ordinary person,
and from thinking of this a fancy had sprung
up that she would suit him better than any
woman he had ever seen. This with him was
enough; and without intimating it to her, or ascertaining
her feelings on the subject, he had
dropped it, with the idea that all was settled.—
Had he been of a different temperament, he would
doubtless have felt uneasy at the attentions which
he could not avoid seeing were paid her by Merton,
and her apparent pleasure while in his company.
But this with him was a matter of course
affair, and he never gave it a thought; or, if he
did, it was only to smile to himself, as much as
to say, to use an old proverb, “you are reckoning
without your host.” Another than him, too,
would have felt indignant at her capture, and
would have revenged himself perhaps on the actors
in that scene; but he never suffered a word to
escape him concerning it. True, he did not know
of it till after her release—having been out that
evening, as was customary with him, till somewhat
late. On his return he had found the family
up in a state of agitation, occasioned by the
events which had happened, and the sickness of
his brother Rufus. He had heard the whole apparently
unmoved; and learning that Curdish
was a prisoner, and knowing that he belonged to
the banditti, had watched his opportunity and set

him at liberty. Nor was this done for any love
he bore Curdish, but merely for a selfish motive,
by which alone he was governed. To gratify
self, or to get revenge, which is only another species
of self, he would go to any extreme, do any
act however devilish. Some months previous to
this event, he had come in contact with several
rough spirits like himself, and by an intuitive
faculty and close observation, had divined that
they were a part of a regular organised band; and
so expressed himself to them, accompanied by a
request to admit him as a member. This they
would not do without putting him to the proof;
and consequently his liberation of Curdish, knowing
him to be one of the band, was only another
of the many good services he had done them.

Such is but an imperfect insight into the character
and motives governing him who now stood
before Emily Nevance; and although we may
have digressed somewhat in imparting this information,
yet as he is destined to bear a conspicuous
part in our story, we felt it to be a matter
with which the reader should at once be made
acquainted.

With John Webber the time had now come
wherein he had resolved to communicate to Emily
his design of making her his partner for life.—
For some days he had been absent from home,
and was even that very morning returning, pondering
this in his mind, and how best to proceed,
when on looking up he was both surprised and rejoiced
to behold the object of his musings before
him. This was only so much in his favor, he
thought, and too good an opportunity to pass
unimproved. Accordingly he approached, as
we have shown, and stood for some time regarding
her in silence, with very curious feelings.—
Her surprise and agitation on seeing him he attributed
to the deep interest she took in his welfare;
or what in another, who could have better
comprehended the meaning of the word, would
have been termed love; hence the answer he
made in reply to her remark. But to resume the
conversation from which we have digressed.

For a moment after Emily spoke, there was a
silence, and feeling unless something was said it
would become very embarrassing, and resolving
to change the subject, she resumed:

“But you seem to absent yourself from us lately,
John; I have not seen you for some days.”

“Yes, Emily, for some days I have been absent,”
replied he, still drawing from this remark
a favorable augury to the success of his design.

“Good news at home—have you learned it?”

“No, I was but now on my way there. Is Rufus
dead?”

“Dead!” echoed Emily, with a start. “I trust
you would not call that good news, John?”

“I beg your pardon,” answered he, coloring at
the manner in which he was betraying himself;
“perhaps I did not understand you. Did you say
good news?”

“I did. Your brother Rufus is free from danger
and recovering rapidly.”

“Ah! yes,” returned he, in a careless tone; certainly—yes—free
from danger—yes—that is good
news.”

Emily, notwitstanding she knew him to be a
man of self, was both surprised and shocked at
this unnatural tone of indifference at the welfare
of an only brother; but by a mighty effort she
managed to prevent her feelings from making
themselves manifest, and continued:

“Yes, the crisis in his fever come last night, and
thank God, he lives! By the orders of the physician
I stood by his side and had the joy of seeing
him return again to life, almost as one from the
dead.”

“Joy, Emily,” replied John, with one of his
devilish smiles, that made her involuntarily shudder;
“was it then such joy to see him return to
life, as you say?”

“Why, John, what mean you?” asked she,
quickly. “You surprise me with such remarks!”

“Do I?” said John, drily.

“Indeed you do!” exclaimed she, with warmth.
“I do not understand such expressions!”

“O, as to that,” he returned, shrugging his
shoulders, “it was merely a question,—that is all
—let it pass!”

“But it was an unnatural question,” rejoined
Emily, with a flushed cheek; “and one I am surprised
to hear one brother ask concerning another!”

“Well!” returned John, with emphasis, contracting
his brows and speaking through his
teeth, “I say let it pass! I might have my reasons
for asking it, you know;” and he fastened
his dark eyes keenly upon her. “But to the
point. I came here to speak on a different subject,
and one that, if truth must be told, interests
me more.”

“Say on, then!” replied Emily, evidently anxious
to finish the conversation as soon as possible:
“I listen.”

“You know, Emily,” resumed John, “I am a
man of few words, and consequently you will
pardon me for coming at once to the point.”

“Proceed!” said Emily, as he paused.

“Well, then, to be brief, I came here to tell you
I love you, and have resolved to make you my
wife.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, staggering
back at this sudden and altogether unexpected announcement:
“You are not in earnest, John?”

“Certainly I am,” replied he, coolly; “why
not? I like you better than any woman I have
ever seen.”

“But—” gasped she.

“O, never mind,” he continued, interrupting
her; “spare your remarks—it is all settled. I
know what you would say, maiden-like, that you
are unworthy and all that: but I will spare your
excuses; it is all settled; we will be married in a
month, and then if you choose you know you can
tell me afterward.”

His cool impudent manner completely puzzled
Emily, at the same time that it roused her indignation.
She could not believe him in earnest,
and yet a kind of presentiment whispered her he
was so. If he was in earnest, she foresaw there
was difficulty in embryo, and how to extricate
herself was a matter of serious reflection. She
saw at once, that in either case, whether he was
trifling or not, her best course was to be firm and
decided in her replies, and accordingly she answered:

“But, John, I do not love you.”

“Ah! do not, eh? Well, that is a matter of
small moment: such things are as likely to come
after marriage as before.”

“But, John, I could never love you!”

“May-be, though that can best be proven by
the test.”

“But, surely, you are not in earnest in this
business, John?”

“Am I not!” cried he, somewhat fiercely, with
a black look. “Have I not said I wasin earnest?”

“But you have not consulted my feelings!”

“O, that with me is of minor importance!”

“But not with me, sir!” replied Emily, reddening
with vexation.

“Well, well,” returned he, sharply, “on that
point suit yourself. I say it is settled!”

“And I say it is settled—” rejoined Emily,
firmly.

“Well, what more?” interrupted he.

“But not as you think,” continued she, finishing
the sentence.

“Not as I think!—what mean you?” asked he,
glaring upon her with a fierce look, and knitting
his brows.

“I will never marry you!” she replied.

“Never marry me?” repeated he.

“Never! I will give my hand only where I
love.”

“Ha!” exclaimed he, taking a step backward—
his whole frame shaking with fierce passion—his
voice trembling so he could scarcely command it,
and hissing from between his clenched teeth:—
“Are you in earnest?”

“I am!” replied she, firmly, though inwardly
frightened at his fierce aspect.

For some time John did not speak, during
which his features underwent contortions awful
to behold and impossible to describe. All the wild
demon of his nature was aroused, and every evil
thought and passion seemed struggling for vent.
His eyes grew fiery—his face grew livid—his veins
swelled, marking out dark blue lines—his brows
contracted, forming a black streak across his forehead—his
nostrils expanded—his bosom heaved—
his teeth closed tightly—his lips contracted, from
which issued a frothy substance,—while over all,
like an ignis-futuus in some dismal swamp, played
that dark, sinister, devilish smile. Emily was
frightened. Never before had she seen or dreamed
of a look so awful. Pale and breathless she
stood and gazed upon him, as one hanging over
some mighty chasm might be supposed to gaze
upon some teriffic monster about to spring and
hurl both to destruction. She could not speak
nor move. She was spell-bound to the rock.—
For some moments both stood thus. At length
he started, threw up both hands, and stamped with
one foot fiercely on the ground; and then from
between his teeth hissed these words, which made
her blood curdle:

“You have said! you have rejected me! Let
your fate save you if it can! Hear me: By every
thing I hold most sacred, I swear you shall be
mine!” and turning away he rushed like a madman
down the hill toward the river, while Emily,
whose nerves had been held rigid by fear, as soon
as he was gone sank fainting upon the rock.

Poor girl! Her troubles had only begun.

4. CHAPTER IV.

The evening succeeding the events just detailed,
found Webber, Bernard and Tyrone seated in
the room to the right of the entrance of the residence
of the first named, engaged in close conversation.
None of the other occupants of the
house were present—Emily and Mrs. Webber
both being in the apartment to the left with Rufus,—who
by the way was considered gradually
recovering—and John had not yet returned. The
conversation of the trio referred to had been carried
on for some time on various topics of little
interest to the reader, but just at the moment we
have chosen to again introduce them, it had taken
another turn, which, as it has a bearing on our story,
is necessary for us to relate.

“You ask me,” remarked Webber, in reply to
some previous question of Tyrone, “what I know
of her history? I answer, but little; in fact, absolutely
nothing, prior to her being left in my
charge, the particulars of which you remember I
gave you some day or two since. There is something
very mysterious about the matter, and I
would go to any expense within my power to
have it cleared up. Poor girl! I often grieve for
her; for although she in my presence ever appears
cheerful and contented, yet I have watched her
when she thought herself unseen, and I know it
troubles her. She is a girl of thought—very sensitive
withal—and I know the obscurity of her
birth must give her painful feelings. Did you
not notice how pale she appeared on her return
from her walk in the morning?”

“I did,” answered Tyrone. “She looked as
one just recovered from a terrible fright.”

“I was alarmed myself,” continued Webber,
“and thought something serious had taken place;
but when I questioned her, she forced a smile
upon her pale features and assured me it was
nothing but a little dizziness in the head which
would soon pass away. I said no more, but that
she must take care of herself—thought in my own
mind the disease is of a very different nature.—
Such a look as she then had and has since worn,
notwithstanding her effort to conceal it, is never
produced by bodily suffering, when the mind is in
the proper state, or all my observations have gone
for nothing. As you remarked, she looked as a
person who had been frightened; though what
should occur to produce that I do not know, unless
the recalling of the night of her kidnapping;
and I scarcely know how that, at this time, should
so effect her. No, no, it was not that; perhaps
she saw one of the villains concerned in that
business:—Gods! if that rascal Curdish had not
escaped me!” (here Webber shut his teeth close,
while his eyes flashed fiercely) “yet we may meet
again!” he added; and then resuming the conversation
where he had broken it off, continued:—
“But if she had seen any of them she would have
told me so. No! it must have been caused by her
own serious reflections. Ha!” added he again, as
if struck by some new thought, “perhaps Merton—but
no, no! Merton is an honorable man.
Perhaps—” he was about to say something
concerning Rufus, but thinking better of it,
paused.

“Speaking of that night, Webber,” remarked
Tyrone, “have you ever formed any idea of the design
of those ruffians in seizing upon her person?”

“Why no, unless for sensual gratification.”

“That warnt it,” put in Bernard, who had for
some time been a listener. “I've been a thinking
the hull matter over myself, and I tell ye for sartain
that warnt it. There's something plaguey
mysterious about it; and since you've been a talking,
an idea's popped into my head that that are
scrape was brought about by a different cause from
what you think.”

“Ah!” said Webber; “and pray what cause de
you assign for it, Harvey?”

At this moment the door opened and John
Webber entered. His features were somewhat
pale, but in other respects much as usual; though
a close observer might have detected the previous
workings of passion, as little marks in a forest tell
of the storm that has just swept over it. With a
simple nod of recognition to the occupants he took
up a chair and seated himself some distance from
them.

“Why, John,” said his father, turning to him,
“why do you absent yourself thus of late? and at
a time too when you are most wanted at home?
You know there is much labor needed on the
farm, and I am not able to accomplish it alone.—
Besides, too, your brother has been very sick, but
by God's blessing is now better! though he might
have been dead and buried without you being the
wiser for it. I have not seen you but twice during
his illness. Where have you been?”

“I have had business to keep me absent,” replied
John, sullenly, evading a direct answer.

“Yes, you always have business!” rejoined Webber,
rather sharply; “but I trust you will close
your business soon, if you have not already done
so, and be a little more at home!”

“I trust I am of age and can act for myself!”
grumbled John.

Webber, who knew too well his son's morose
disposition and evil temper to carry the matter
farther at present, made no reply, but turning to
Bernard, said: “I will now hear your answer
with regard to what you suppose the cause.”

“Wal, as I was saying,” returned Bernard,
“while you've been talking, I've been a thinking
the matter over, and I remember hearing one o'
them are rascals, in his conversation with the
tother, say that the old feller what hired 'em, and
the gal, and some other feller was all kind o' mixed
up into a secret—at least he guessed so, from
knowing the first old feller'd got hold o' some papers,
and had been mighty anxious to git the gal
ever since.”

“Ah! true, true!” rejoined Tyrone; “I remember
now hearing the same remark; but not knowing
then to whom it referred, had quite forgotten
it.”

“Strange! strange!” said Webber, thoughtfully;
“more mystery. Can it be possible there was
some one at the bottom of that affair who knows
her history? It may be. The more I think of
it, the more mysterious everything concerning it
appears. My mind has been so much occupied
with the uncertain fate of my son since that event,
that I have never till now thought of it so seriously;
and have never even questioned Emily or
Merton on the subject—what took place—how he
found her—or how she was rescued; but I will do
so now, and perhaps she will be able to throw
some light upon the matter.” As he spoke, he
arose, passed out of the room, and presently returned
with the object of their conversation.

The features of Emily as she entered were very
pale, their expression very sad; and though she
strove to look cheerful, it was evident to all she
was undergoing severe mental suffering. As she
came forward and took her seat, her eye fell upon
John, and she gave an involuntary start, while
every muscle of her face quivered.

“Good heavens, Emily, you are not well!” exclaimed
Webber, as he noticed the change in her
appearance. “Tell me, my child, truly, are you
not ill?”

“I—I did feel a little unwell, just at this moment,”
replied Emily, by a mighty effort recover
ing her composure; “but I am better now. Indeed,”
she added, seeing Webber looked at her
doubtfully, “I feel quite well again.”

Webber shook his head gravely; and then, as if
fearful of agitating her, proceeded directly to the
matter in point.

“We were talking, Emily, of the events of that
night of your seizure by those ruffians, and have
sent for you to give us the particulars of what
you saw and heard.”

Glad of anything that would for a moment relieve
her mind of the painful thoughts now agitating
her, Emily proceeded at once to give a full
narration of what she had seen and heard herself,
and also the particulars of Edward's adventures,
as related by himself on that eventful night, all of
which matters being familiar to the reader, we
shall not again detail.

“Depend upon't, I's right!” said Bernard, triumphantly,
as Emily concluded. “That are stingy
old Jew warnt doing that are rascally business
for nothing.”

“True,” rejoined Webber, thoughtfully, “there
does appear a mysterious connection between that
and what has gone before. And then that old
woman's warning—her knowledge of what was
taking place—the sudden entrance of the stranger,
who gave his name as Barton—the ring and
its wonderful effect upon the Jew, are matters
which look very mysterious, and show a deep laid
plot of some kind,—and then that conversation
between the kidnapper and the Jew indicates that
the latter has some, or at least thinks he has some,
secret knowledge of Emily. This affair must be
looked into at once. But then, again, that counter-plot
of the ring—what had that to do with it?
I do not understand it. Barton, too, Barton,”
continued he, musingly, “why I know one of that
name—a gentleman that has been some time in
these parts—a speculator in land—can it be that
he is the same? But no—pshaw! what should he
know of the Jew? What think you of the whole
affair, Tyrone?”

“Why that is what I hardly know myself,”
answered the person addressed. “As you say, it
appears like a deep laid scheme in the first instance;
but then that counter-plot, or whatever it
may be, perplexes me. Ha! an idea strikes me:
May it not be possible that these ruffians are a part
of an organised band, who were acting without
the knowledge of their leader, or carrying out
some plan of his before it was fully ripe for execution,
and so were interrupted by him?”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Webber, starting; “I
think you are right. At least there has been a
band of outlaws in this quarter; for when I first
came here, it was almost a daily occurence to hear
of horse-stealing, robbery, and even murder; and
the name of Ronald Bonardi, the bold, reckless
leader of this banditti, was passed from ear to ear,
among the more timid, with feelings of superstitious
awe and horror. In fact, to such an alarming
extent were his depredations carried on, at
one time, that the whole country became aroused,
private meetings were held among the more peaceable
citizens or settlers, and a heavy reward was
offered to any one who should take him dead or
alive; but he was never caught. It was supposed
he got information of their proceedings and
left this part of the country; for since that time,
with but few exceptions, the settlers have remained
undisturbed—though I have heard of some few
exploits since, that smack of his, but for the most
part they happened east of the Mississippi.”

“I jest recollect hearing the same kind o' yarns
told about that are chap when I's out this way
afore,” said Bernard; “and I told Mark here, when
I seed that are harrycane coming up, and knowed
we'd have to crawl into the cave, that like as not
we'd get into a robber's nest, and it made Mark
quite skeery like.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Tyrone, with an angry
gesture, the color deepening in his face; “have
done with such nonsense, Bernard!”

“Fact, I swow!” returned Bernard, looking slyly
at Webber and giving him the wink. Webber
smiled, but made no reply.

“What was the personal appearance of this bandit
chief?” enquired Tyrone, not heeding the last
remark.

“In size he was rather large and well formed,”
replied Webber; “at least that seems the most
correct information on the subject; though some
who saw him solemnly declared him to be a monster—a
giant; but doubtless their fears made them
exaggerate. His features I believe were never
seen, as he always wore a mask. In some of his
exploits—in fact I may say all—he exhibited a
wild eccentricity of manner, that distinguished
him from all his followers. He has been described
by some as bloodthirsty and utterly ferocious; but
then, again, others relate anecdotes which prove
him, notwithstanding, to have been a man of feeling;
for he has been known to rob an individual
and then return him his money, when he saw he
was likely to be distressed by the loss. Occasionally
too, a poor man has been surprised at having
a purse of money placed in his hand, by a masked
stranger, accompanied with these words, uttered
in a slow, solemn tone: `Remember in turn the
needy, and in your prayers forget not Ronald Bonardi.'
”

“A singular being!” remarked Tyrone, musingly.
“He had, decidedly, some fine redeeming
traits. Do you think him still living?”

“As to that I am undecided,” answered Webber.
“But if he be living, he has either reformed
or left this part of the country—for of late I have
heard nothing of him. I am inclined to the opinion,
however, that he is living, but has quit his
former mode of life. Were he still in this vicinity,
I should be strongly inclined to believe him
the person who gave Merton the ring—it being
somewhat characteristic of the man—were it not
for one or two reasons to the contrary. In the
first place, Bonardi would not have revealed his
features. In the second place, this person gave
his name as Barton, and Bonardi would have
given his own.”

“But when he gave his name as Bonardi, his
features, by your account, were always masked,”
remarked Tyrone; “consequently, unmasked, no
person would know him as Bonardi; and might
he not, under such circumstances, give his name
as Barton?”

“Such a thing might be, it is true,” replied
Webber, thoughtfully, “but I do not think it
likely. In sooth, to me the whole affair looks
improbable, from the fact that I do not believe
Bonardi to be in this section, or we should ere
this have heard of him. No, now that I think
of it again, Tyrone, your suggestion that these
ruffians are a part of an organised band, does not
appear so plausible. I should rather judge them to
be some low, desperate characters, employed for
the occasion by the Jew, whose reputation as a
cowardly villain is wide spread. The ring business,
as I said before, I do not understand. It
might have been that this was a signal, understood
among themselves as indicating danger, and
to forego their design, whatever it was, until a
better opportunity should present itself. If this
was the case, their cards were well played. But
I must question Merton, when I see him, and get
more of the particulars.”

“Speaking of these matters, Webber, did you
not feel unsafe here, with your family, when you
first settled, knowing that you were surrounded
by such a band of desperadoes, and in a country
too so thinly populated that you would be likely
to get no assistance, even if attacked, with no
laws of force sufficient to protect either property
or person?” enquired Tyrone.

“Why, such matters did trouble me some at
first,” replied Webber; “and in consequence of
this I built my cottage very strong, and secured
me some dozen of good rifles and plenty of ammunition—which
I still have on hand—though,
thank Heaven! I have never been molested, nor
had occasion to use them. The seizure of Emily
is the first trouble of the kind that has ever happened
with any of my family: and somehow I
have never looked on this so seriously as I do
now; for since all the circumstances have been
explained, I think there will be more trouble.
But do not be alarmed, Emily,” continued he,
addressing himself more directly to her; “you
shall be protected; only do not venture out too
far alone—at least not for the present.”

“Rest assured I shall not!” said Emily, stealing
a look at John, who sat perfectly unmoved, apparently
heeding nothing that was said.

“What course do you intend to pursue, in regard
to this matter?” enquired Tyrone.

“Can I depend upon you to assist me, Tyrone?”

“You can, to all that lies in my power.”

“And you, Harvey, I know will stand by an
old friend!”

“Wal I guess I will now,” answered Bernard,
his cheeks flushing and his eye brightening at this
complimentary appeal to his courage: “I guess I
will now; jest try me and see if I don't. Stand
by ye, Bill Webber—you who I've known ever
since I was a leetle boy—why, darn me for a
sneaking coward, if I wont go it clean to the
death, plum! I swow I will, and no backing!”

“Well, then,” rejoined Webber, smiling at the
enthusiasm of his friend, “my course is decided.
We will arm ourselves and proceed at once to
the hut of the old woman, who seems to know so
much of the matter, and force her to reveal the
full particulars, who were the instigators, actors,
and also their whereabouts at the present time.
We will then take her along with us, both as a
guide and to prevent her communicating with
any of the villains, and proceed next to the hut
of the old Jew, whom I shall take into custody
for further examination; and if he has any secret
papers, concerning Emily, I will have them, and
know how he obtained them. We will then return,
and if it be necessary for more help, in order
to secure the others, I will call upon neighbor
Winslow—who has lately settled within a
mile of me, and has five brave, hardy sons—and
neighbor Mason, living some half a mile farther
on, who has four more; and between the two
families I think I can raise sufficient force to teach
these ruffians better manners than meddling with
me or mine! By heavens! and I will so teach
them too, ere I have done with them, or my name
is not William Webber!”

“Jest the same old grit in ye yit!” remarked

Bernard, approvingly. “Jest the same Bill Webber
you used to be! You always had a go-a-head-a-tiveness
about ye, when there was any pluck
needed. I haint forgot how you gin it to that
are tarnal horse-thief, that was so plaguey desperate
nobody else dared to touch him, and you only
a boy then, as one may say.”

“That was a hard fight,” returned Webber.
“Perhaps I could not handle myself so well now,
as then; but still I think I could do something, if
forced into a fight, even now.”

“But when do you think of proceeding in this
business?” asked Tyrone.

“Early on to-morrow,” replied Webber. “It
has been too long delayed already. Had it not
been for the severe illness of Rufus, I should have
enquired into the matter sooner, and long ere this
would have been like a blood-hound on the track
of the ruffians. Perhaps it is better though, as it
is; for they would then, doubtless, have been on
their guard—expecting, as they naturally would,
a pursuit. Now I trust to take them unawares.”

“But do you not think they have fled the country?”
asked Tyrone.

“No! I do not; from the fact, as it appears,
that the person of Emily is what they sought;
and they will be likely to hover in the vicinity for
a second trial.”

“By the way, Webber, a thought strikes me!”
said Tyrone, suddenly. “Have you ever been
able to account for the escape of Curdish?”

“No!” answered Webber, “I have not. That
was another very mysterious affair, which has perplexed
me not a little. No one could have entered
the house after John came home, for the
door was bolted on the inside; and after that I
looked into the room, and saw Curdish still there;
otherwise I should have supposed he escaped by
means of a false key; but had he done so, the
outer door would not have remained bolted on
the inside, as was the case in the morning. What
think you of it, John?”

“I know nothing about it”—muttered John—
“only that I see nothing so very mysterious concerning
it. As to the door being bolted on the
inside, I can say, that having occasion to get up
in the night, I found it standing open, and bolted
it myself. Curdy, or Curdish, or whatever his
name may be, might have had a false key for all
I know to the contrary. Such things are too
common, I think, to be very mysterious.”

“Why, this explains it then!” rejoined Webber.
“Why did you not mention this before,
John?”

“Because I'm not very talkative,” replied John,
drily.

“Well,” said Webber, with a stern look,
“should I be so fortunate as to again have him in
my power, it will require something more than
false keys to save him!” A pause followed this
last remark, and each individual appeared absorbed
in thought. Webber at length resumed
the conversation, by asking Bernard how long he
intended to remain in the vicinity.

“Wal, as to that,” replied Bernard, “it depends
altogether on circumstances. I jest cum out with
friend Mark, here, to look at the land in these
ere diggins, and see what sort of a speculation I
might make; but as you've got into a bit of a
fuss here, I'll jest kind o' keep an eye in this ere
quarter, and be ready to do all I can for ye.”

“Thank you, Harvey!” returned Webber,
warmly. “And you, Tyrone, how is it with
you?”

“Why, as Bernard has just remarked, I came
out here to examine the state of the country, and
attend to some professional business in St. Louis.
By profession, as you are aware, I am a lawyer—though
but lately admitted to the bar. I
had an opportunity some months since of purchasing
a section of land—north of, but bordering
on the Missouri—which I embraced. Some time
after, I received a letter from a gentleman in St.
Louis, offering me for it four times the amount I
paid. This excited my curiosity to know what
had induced the offer; and as I had a desire of seeing
this western country—of which so much has
been said of late—and as my friend Bernard was
desirous of coming out here also, I concluded to
be his companion for the journey. I had heard of
you frequently, from various sources, and Bernard
being an old schoolmate of yours, I determined
on paying you a visit.”

“I am right glad you have done so,” returned
Webber, cordially; “and there seems almost a Providence
in your very conclusion, from the fact that
you came so opportune; for without your timely
assistance I know not what might have been the
result of that knavish affair. I trust you will consider
my house your home, so long as you choose
to remain in the West; and for the invaluable service
both you and Bernard have already rendered
me and mine, accept my warmest thanks, and
hold me ever gratful.”

“As for myself, gentlemen,” said Emily, rising,
“I cannot express what I feel; but you may conceive
it somewhat, when I say that to both of you,
under God, I hold myself indebted—though perhaps
indirectly—for the preservation of my honor,
which of course is dearer to me than life;” and
stepping gracefully forward, she frankly extended
a hand to each, her eyes beaming with the grateful
emotions of her heart.

Both Bernard and Tyrone were affected at this
unexpected elucidation of feeling—this heart-touching
frankness of Webber and Emily, the
latter more especially—and in spite of themselves
both felt their eyes growing moist.

“Hang it all!” returned Bernard, at length,
drawing his hard, rough hand across his eyes,
“you make a feller soft jest for nothing, Emily, I
swow! Why we didn't du a tarnal thing for ye,
hardly, and yit you're praising on us jest as if
we'd done some great things. Take it all back,
Emily, du, until we've done something worth
talking about. I can stand fighting putty tolerable
well, but a woman's soft talk clean upsets me
altogether.”

“I cannot but be affected at your noble frankness,
Emily,” said Tyrone, gazing tenderly upon
her; “but as Bernard has just remarked, I would
you had waited until we did something more deserving;
though God knows, Emily, I will sacrifice
my life for you if necessary!”

“Put me in that are scrape, Mark! put me in
that are scrape, tu!” cried Bernard.

It was now Emily's turn to be affected; and
without venturing a reply, she pressed their hands,
turned away and abruptly left the room. A moment
after, John arose and disappeared also—for
what purpose will be seen anon. Half an hour
later, a horse, bearing a rider, might have been
heard going swiftly toward the east.

After some further conversation, not essential
to our story, Webber, Bernard and Tyrone, together
with Mrs. Webber and Emily, retired for
the night, and the outer door was strongly bolted,
though John had not returned.