University of Virginia Library

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.