University of Virginia Library

4. PART IV.

1. CHAPTER I.

Love—mighty love—deep, pure, inward, soul-stirring
love! Who in journeying through life
has not at sometime felt its rapturous pleasures—
its mental torturing pains?—for love has pleasures,
and love has pains:—pleasures the most
deeply thrilling—pains of the deepest anguish.
What a powerful thing is love! How it stirs up
all the secret springs of our being—rouses into
action energies and passions that we knew not
were in us—neutralizing, at the same time, and
sometimes almost completely destroying, others
that we deemed were all powerful. All potent
love! Monarch of the mental realm; to which
all—high or low, rich or poor,—are forced to
bow! Confined to no grade or clime, it sweeps
through the universe, and is felt in the soft airs of
Italy—in the frozen regions of Lapland. It stalks
through the palaces of the mighty ones of earth
—it lingers in the hovel of the peasant and the
outcast. It softens the hearts of emperors and
kings, and bends them to its will—it elevates,
tranquilizes, and makes contentment often in the
souls of the lowly born. It abounds in savage, as
in civilized life; and the untutored outpourings of
the artless Indian of the forest are as sweet to the
ear of the savage maiden, as the most refined and
flowery phrases of the courtly lover to her who
is polished by the arts of civilization. All conquering
love! Who can withstand it? It warms
into new life the heart of the stoic—it destroys
the seeming eternal reason raised fallacies of the
great philosopher; and as one by one his self-conquering
theories melt away before him, he
sighs to own that love is his master, and thus
prove himself a frail piece of mortality. All pervading
love! Who has not felt its presence?

O, it is sweet to love—to gaze upon some gentle
or noble being, and feel all the deep emotions,
all the secret sympathies of our nature centered
there, as it were a nucleus to our own vitality.—
And then to feel that that love is returned; to
know, to realize there is a spontaneous unity, a
sympathetic yearning of soul for soul; that there
is in this cold and selfish world at least one heart
in which we may place confidence—one being on
whom we can rely, to stand by us, let good or ill
betide—one kindred soul that will ever smile
when we rejoice, weep when we do mourn--O,
this, this is sweet—ay, sweet indeed! And who
hath not at some time of his or her life felt this?
and who that hath felt, hath not sighed a rejoicing
sigh that there was such a thing as love?

But love without hope—love without a reciprocity
of feeling—to love one that you know can
never be yours; one that you know loves another;
as Shakspeare says:

Oh, love without hope is terrible—terrible! To
feel your whole life and soul centred in a being—
a being every way worthy, but one who is in turn
fixed upon another, and sees you not, knows you
not, save as a friend—a friend in the cold, worldly
meaning of the term, and perhaps not even that,
or, what is worse, loves you as a sister or a brother,
and, dreaming not of a warmer feeling in your
own breast, makes you perchance a repository of
confidence, and paints in glowing colors your rival
to your face—oh, how this can wring the
heart!—how make it heave, and palpitate, and
burn, and ache; and the brain too, grow hot, and
seeth, and wither, and strain, and reel with this
one mighty, terrible truth—sapping at length all
the foundations of an otherwise noble intellect—
destroying the system, and ending in the cold and
silent grave! But few, comparatively speaking,
feel this, thank God! but oh, to those few, how
terrible the feeling! We may talk of the rack,
and the dumnable inventions of torture for the
physical man; but oh! what are they when compared
with the rack that rends the soul?

But, says the reader, on with the story! Ay,
and on with the story say we.

It was a beautiful morning--the same with which
we opened the chapter preceeding—and the sun,
as he rose in a reddened halo, and peered gently
over the eastern hill, poured his soft mild rays
through the doorway and open casements of Webber's
cottage, traced out bright spots upon the
curtains and floor, and seemed striving to give
every thing around, animate and inanimate, a
look of gladness to welcome his approach. All
nature without wore a cheerful smile; and every
little zephyr that passed went loaded with perfume
and song; but with these bright things our
task is not; ah, no! ours to peer into the depths of
that strange thing, the human heart, to decipher
the characters on its tablets, and thus trace the
cause of outward effects.

Let us now enter the apartment of the invalid,
some half hour after the departure of Webber,
Bernard and Tyrone. But two persons were
there—Emily and Rufus--Mrs. Webber being
employed with the morning labor of the house-wife
in the other apartment. Emily was seated
by a table—a few feet from the bed on which reclined
Rufus—with one soft pearly hand resting
upon it, and her now pale, sad, but still sweet face
inclined downwards, and her deep blue eyes gazing
upon the floor, with that peculiar expression
which tells the mind is absent. Sad though
she was, and with that touching sadness which
goes at once to the heart, yet one in gazing upon
her could scarcely wish her otherwise, she looked

so exceedingly lovely. She was dressed plain,
but neat; while her bright auburn hair was arranged
with that negligent grace which gives
even to beauty another charm; and as the rays of
the sun, occasionally, from the swaying of the
curtains, streamed in upon it, and deepened its
golden hue, one could easily fancy hers the head
of an angel encircled by a golden halo.

On the bed, with his head slightly raised and
supported by his hand—with his pale, wan, but
still handsome features turned towards Emily,
and his full blue eyes fastened tenderly but sadly
upon her—lay the gentle Rufus, a prey to a disease—a
disease of the mind—that was destined
ere long to bear him to that silent home,

And what was that disease—that strange disease
of the mind—that was wearing away one just ripening
into the bloom of manhood, with apparently
everything before him to make life happy?
What secret trouble in one so young could be
draining the fountains of life and making the fertile
spot a desert? It is time the reader should
know, if he or she (as we doubt not) have not already
divined. He was dying of hopeless love! Ay,
and before him sat the being in whom his vitality,
as it were, was centered—totally unconscious of
his consuming passion. And well was it for her
she knew it not; for it would have been another
pang—ay, and a terrible one—to a gentle heart
already too full of anguish! She could not have
returned his passion, for her own heart was set
upon another; and to know him daily wasting
away—and to know, too, that she was the cause
—would have been a grief almost insupportable.
This he knew, from what he had seen and heard,
and had resolved to carry his secret with him to
the grave, which he now felt was not far distant.

Thrown together in childhood, from a child up
Rufus had loved Emily—deeply, purely loved her
—and his was a soul to love but one, and that one
with an intensity of passion more powerful than
life itself. His playmate in youth, he had dreamed
bright dreams of coming years—had painted
beautiful and happy pictures from the fancy
wrought scenes of the shaded future; dreams
which had proved but dreams—pictures in which
there was no reality. His first pang had been on
their first separation some years before; but he had
been buoyed up and soothed by the charmer Hope.
He had thought of her daily, almost hourly, during
her absence—had longed for, and yet almost
dreaded the meeting with her again. That meeting
had at last taken place, and he had seen her,
after a long absence, blooming in all the graces of
a refined, noble, intellectual woman! He had
seen her more polished and beautiful than even
an ardent fancy had painted her, and with his
own mind more expanded and matured, he had felt
his passion more intense; which, like the pent up
waters of a spring, he knew must find vent, or,
pressed back into its source, the heart, undermine,
and finally destroy the clayey casement
around it.

But alas for him! too soon he discovered another
had at least fixed her attention, if not already
won her affections, and a strong presentiment had
told him the result. Still the presentiment had
not proved a certainty, and the sweet voice of the
charmer Hope had occasionally whispered, “All
may yet be well.”

Thus six months had rolled away, with him al
most wearily; for although near the gentle being
of his secret love, yet he daily had seen new evidences
to prove him farther from her heart than
ever; and doubts, and fears, with occasionally a
ray of hope, and sleepless nights, and days of anguish,
had already done their work on a constitution
never at any time the strongest. Thus,
we say, six months had rolled away, which brings
us to the opening of our story—the night of the
storm, and of Emily's capture—in which the reader
will remember his introduction and singular conduct.
And yet that conduct and result, when we
know the motive power—the state of his constitution,
and temperament—appears perfectly simple
and natural. And so it is, we may add, with
every thing in nature—everything around us,
that to our limited vision appears mysterious for
the time,—no sooner do we learn the cause, than
we admit the effect could not have been otherwise,
without violating some law of nature.

On the day in question, then, when he had
seen Emily ride forth with Edward, a presentiment
had come over him of trouble, and sorrow
to come; and his steps had been slow, his brow
clouded, and his heart heavy; and hence the cause
of his wild manner, which had so surprised his
father, when it became evident some accident had
occurred to prevent their return. Having paused,
as the reader will remember, a moment on the
hill, he had learned from Tyrone the whole state
of the case, and again dashed on with a wildness
bordering on insanity. Instinctively—for reason
could scarcely be deemed paramount with him
then—he had shaped his course directly for the
Mississippi; but ere he could reach it, his quick
ear had caught the sound of her sweet voice; and
at the same time, by the light of the moon, he
had descried both Edward and Emily approaching.
Being completely in the shade, they had
not observed him; and instantly reining his
horse to one side, he had waited in a thicket for
them to pass. And then and there, in that lonely
place, with his mind torn on the rack of terrible
excitement, he had heard soft words from her
own sweet lips that went like daggers to his
heart, and extinguished the last faint gleam of
hope.

For a few minutes after that magical voice had
died away in the distance, Rufus had sat his horse
more like a statue than a human being. And
then and there a terrible feeling had swept over
him; a feeling of despair and death—a consciousness
of life, but life with heated irons on his
brain, and poisoned arrows in his heart—while
reason, like a candle consumed to the stick, was
flickering in the socket. For a few minutes he
had sat thus; and then, with reason and instinct
combined, had come a desire to reach home. Mechauically
he had urged his high-spirited beast
onward, and taking a circuitous route, had come
into the road ahead of Edward and Emily, who,
in consequence, had never seen him. Thus he
reached home, as we have previously shown, long
in advance of the others; but the excitement only
had supported him; and when the foaming steed
paused at the door, and he had announced their
safety, his nerves relaxed, reason for the time
fled, and he had been borne into the house in a
high state of fever, placed upon a bed, from
which he was destined never to rise. That there
were other causes, besides these we have mentioned,
combined to produce his sickness, we do
not deny; but that these were the only preventatives
to his recovery, we assert. Having thus

laid bare the secrets of his heart, and the causes
of what might otherwise seem mysterious actions,
let us new turn to him again.

For a few minutes Rufus gazed upon Emily
Nevance—who still sat as we have described
her—with a look of intense sadness; and then
with a deep drawn sigh, he said:

“Why do you look so sad, Emily? I fear
something has gone wrong with you!”

At the sound of his voice, which was low and
musical, Emily started, raised her face—now
somewhat flushed—and turning to Rufus, looked
at him earnestly a moment, and then replied:

“Sad, Rufus; do I then look sad?”

“Indeed you do, Emily; very, very sad. I
noticed it yesterday, after your return from a
walk; and I have noticed, too, that you have not
smiled since, as you used to do. I fear something
troubles you, Emily!”

Emily's face grew a shade paler. “You are
right, Rufus,” she answered; “something does
trouble me—though I did not intend to betray it
by my looks.”

“Will you not tell me what it is?” asked he,
tenderly.

Emily shook her head sadly, and said: “No, I
must not reveal it to you, Rufus!”

“True,” he returned, while a look of anguish
swept ever his pale, thin, but still handsome
features: “I should have remembered, ere I asked,
that I am not your confident.”

“Nor is any one my confident in this matter,
Rufus,” rejoined Emily, quickly, a little touched
at his remark, while the color again tinged her
fair features: “I would tell you as soon as another,
Rufus!”

“Forgive me, Emily, forgive me!” returned
he, sinking back upon the pillow, and placing his
hand to his head as though in pain. “I was too
hasty, and wronged you. I know you would tell
me if it was proper for me to know.”

Emily was affected; and approaching the bed,
she took one of his thin hands in hers, while a tear
glistened in her eye. “Oh, you are so sensitive!”
she said; “but do not be troubled so, dear Rufus,
or I shall grow more sad myself. You ask me to
forgive you. I would gladly do so, had I any
thing to forgive; but the fault was all my own. I
should not have spoken so hastily, knowing your
almost too sensitive nature.”

For a moment Rufus made no reply, while
Emily stood by him, one of his hands pressed in
hers, and the other upon his eyes; and then, with
a great effort at composure, in a voice slightly
trembling, he enquired:

“Have you seen Edward, of late?”

“But once since that terrible night,” answered
Emily, casting down her eyes, while an involuntary
sigh escape I her, which Rufus noted. “He
came once, about a week since, while you were
lying in that dangerous state, but made only a
short stay, as we were all too much engaged to
talk with him.”

“Doubtless ere long he will be here again?”
said Rufus, enquiringly.

“He mentioned to-day, when he departed,” returned
Emily, with her eyes still bent downward.
“But you are agitated, Rufus,” continued
she, suddenly looking up, as she felt his hand
tremble in hers: “What troubles you thus, Rufus?”

“It is passed,” he answered, after a moment's
silence. “I am somewhat subject to nervous
agitations, and this was one.”

“But what is the cause of these?” asked Emily.
“I have often noticed such before at different periods
during your illness.”

“Nay, Emily,” returned he sadly, “I cannot
answer you.”

“I fear something lies heavy on your mind,”
rejoined Emily, soothingly. “Oh, that I had the
power to alleviate, and restore you to health and
cheerfulness!”

Rufus withdrew his hand from his eyes as Emily
spoke, and gazed upon her long and earnestly,
with an expression which one of Emily's perception,
but less occupied than she with painful
thoughts, would never have mistaken. “Do not
think of me,” he said, at length. “You have, it
I divine rightly, trouble enough of your own.
As to health and cheerfulness, I shall see them no
more.”

“Oh, do not—do not talk thus!” returned Emily,
quickly. “Banish, Rufus, banish all such
gloomy thoughts! You are young, and I see no
reason why you should not have before you a
long life of happiness.”

Rufus shook his head sadly. “Ah, you do not
see,” he answered, “because you cannot see,
Emily; but he not deceived. I have a presentiment
that speaks to me in a voice you cannot hear,
by which I feel certain I shall never recover.”

“But why should you think thus, Rufus?—
Your physician has pronounced you out of
danger, and says that in a few days you will be
entirely well again.”

“Ah, Emily, I repeat, be not deceived. My
physician, doubtless, is a very good and skilful
one, but in this he is mistaken, as time will shortly
prove. Yes, I feel that I am upon a bed of death.
But a little while and I shall pass from among
the living—missed and mourned by a few only—
and quickly be forgotten.”

“Oh no, no—not forgotten, Rufus,” exclaimed
Emily, vehemently; “not forgotten, while Emily
Nevance lives! But come, come,” added she,
“do not talk of such things; they make me more
and more sad!”

“Well, well,” rejoined Rufus, gently, “we will
talk of them no more then, Emily; for Heaven
knows you are sad enough with matters of your
own, without being burdened with an additional
weight from me! We will strive to be more
cheerful, Emily; we will talk of the past. You
shall tell me of your life in the city, and how you
first became acquainted with the noble Edward
Merton.”

At the mention of the name of Edward, Rufus
perceived a gentle glow suffuse the cheeks of
Emily; and a brightening of the eye, with a look of
pleasure, told plainly that the task he had assigned
her was by no means a hard one. And such
was the fact. Oppressed by a weight of gloomy
thoughts of impending evil, since her interview
with John the day previous, Emily felt glad of
anything that would for the time relieve her; and
seating herself by the side of Rufus, she immediately
complied with his request; and began by
telling him her first sensations when she arrived
in the great metropolis—spoke of the manners
and customs of the citizens—of the different
grades of society—and, finally, touched upon Edward—their
first interview—gradually launching
out upon his noble appearance, manly qualities,
and generous nature. As she did so, her very
soul appeared to run in her voice, her eyes sparkled,
her features became animated, and she seemed for
the time completely carried away by a noble enthusiasm.

Alas, little did she know that every
word she uttered went like pointed steel to the
heart of Rufus! Little did she dream that her
narration was placing him upon a rack of mental
torture! But Rufus knew before the state of her
feelings; and he had asked her to speak of the past,
and of Edward, merely to relieve her of the gloomy
thoughts which he knew must be occupying her
mind, to cause her so much sadness. This he did,
regardless of the pain it occasioned himself, which
he bore with a sort of melancholy or saddened
gladness—if the reader will allow us an expression
so paradoxical.

Thus passed two hours, when the conversation
was interrupted by the arrival of Edward himself.
Emily started up with an expression of joy, and
sprang to the door to meet him, while Rufus
turned his head away, for a few moments, ere his
entrance, with a look of deep anguish. When
Edward did enter, however, all was calm again,
and Rufus turned to him with a smile, and friendly
greeting. Nor was this forced for appearance
sake as one might suppose; for in his heart Rufus
cherished for his rival the most friendly feelings
—believing him to be a warm hearted, noble fellow—and
the cause of his anguish, when Emily
spoke of Edward, might be attributed to grief at
his own hopeless fate, rather than to envy or jealousy
of the other.

After passing the usual salutations of the day,
and some little conversation on other matters had
occurred, Merton proceeded to look to the condition
of his horse; which done, he returned to the
house, and passed the morning in a social way, in
company with Emily and Rufus, occasionally
joined for a few minutes by Mrs. Webber herself.

After dinner, as the day was so fine, Edward
proposed to Emily to take a short ride through
the country. “You seem to be somewhat depressed
in spirits,” he said, “and I think a little
healthy exercise in the open air will prove highly
beneficial to you.”

Emily hesitated some moments, ere making a
reply, while a heavy foreboding of coming ill depressed
her even more. At length she answered.
“I somehow do not think it advisable to go forth
to-day; and besides, did I wish to, my Fanny is
absent, on an expedition of a different nature, so
you percieve I have no animal to ride.”

“Well, you shall take mine then,” returned
Edward, “while I will content myself to walk.—
But go you must, most certainly, Emily; for I
know it will be for your good—otherwise I would
not urge you.”

After some farther gentle persuasion, Emily
consented, on condition they should not go far,
and return ere nightfall.

“Your distance and time shall be mine,” answered
Merton; and proceeding at once to the stable,
he shifted the saddle, and directly led forth
his noble beast, which seemed to walk as though
already conscious of the lovely burden he was
about to bear. Emily in the meantime had put
on her riding dress, velvet cap, and stood in the
door awaiting his return—with her green veil
thrown back from her fair features, which now
looked more beautiful than ever. As Merton led
forth the graceful animal, Emily marked with an
experienced eye his stately step, his full breast,
his handsomely curved neck, and, as she did so, a
smile of pride lingered around the corners of her
mouth, giving an animation to her whole face—
pride for the animal of which she was soon to
become, as 'twere, a part.

While standing thus, and when Edward had
approached within a few paces, she heard the
voice of Rufus, and turned back to know what
was required.

“Come hither, Emily,” he said, in a low tone,
as she entered the room, partly raising himself in
bed; “come hither; I have a few words to say to
you.” As Emily approached, she perceived he
was a good deal agitated, and once or twice he
pressed his hand to his temples as though in pain.

“You seem troubled, Rufus,” remarked she,
gently. “Are you more ill than usual?”

“I am far from being well,” he replied, taking
her hand, and gazing upon her with a sad, carnest
expression, which she could not account for. “I
am far from being well, Emily; but I did not call
you back to tell you of my ailings.”

“What then, Rufus?” asked she mildly, with a
tender look, as he paused; “what then?”

“Perhaps you will laugh at me, Emily, for what
I am going to say,” replied he solemnly; “yet I
beg of you to heed it well!”

“I shall not laugh, Rufus, say on!” rejoined
Emily.

“I see by your dress,” he continued; “you are
going forth for a ride. Do not ride far, and make
sure of your return ere the shadows stretch their
full length toward the east!”

“Such was my intention, Rufus,” returned
Emily, surprised at his carnest look and tone;
“but why this caution from you?”

“I know not why, Emily,” answered he sadly,
“but something tells me if we do not meet
again ere the sun has sunk to rest, we meet no
more in time.”

“Why this is strange imagining, Rufus—very
strange!” said Emily, quickly and solemnly, her
own foreboding recurring to her. “What reason
have you for thinking thus, Rufus?”

“I can give no reason, Emily, save that God,
who orders all things for the best, sees proper at
times, to warn us of approaching danger and dissolution,
by what is called a presentiment; which,
in my opinion, is but the spirit acting for a short
period without the physical taking cognizance
thereof—and thus pierces and shows us what is
directly impending behind the veil of the future.”

“I too have had some strange forebodings of
late,” said Emily, thoughtfully; “though I scarcely
know to what they tend.”

“Ah, that accounts for your sadness, then!” rejoined
Rufus; “but if you feel any hesitation now,
Emily, I beg of you not to go—for I cannot shake
off the idea, that if you do, we part for the last
time!”

“Oh, do not think and say thus!” exclaimed
Emily, with emotion, who in spite of herself felt
a feeling of awe creeping over her. “Do not say
thus, Rufus! You have long years before you
yet.”

Rufus shook his head with a wan smile.—
“You do not know,” he said, “what I know, or
you would not say that. I repeat what I have told
you before, that from this bed I shall never rise!”

“Are you nearly ready?” enquired the voice
of Merton from without.

“I must go, dear Rufus, for I have promised
him I would; otherwise I would not;” said Emily,
hastily. “But I will not go far, Rufus, and
will return ere sunset; this I promise you.”

“Well,” returned Rufus, sadly, his eyes filling
with tears, “God enable you to keep your promise,
Emily! but for fear of the worst I bid you
farewell!” and he pressed her hand respectfully

to his lips. “If we do not meet again on earth,”
he added, in a trembling voice, “I trust we shall in
Heaven! Farewell.”

“But you unnerve me, Rufus,” said Emily,
bursting into tears. “Surely you are making a
too solemn affair of this—or are you in reality
dying, Rufus?” and the very thought seemed to
startle her.

“I do not feel myself to be dying in the literal
sense of the term,” answered Rufus. “I may
live weeks, even months to come; and I may
scarcely live days—so uncertain do I look upon
the time allotted me.”

“Nay, then, Rufus,” returned Emily, hastily
drying her tears, “do not give way to such gloomy
thoughts. I will return again presently; but I
see Edward is getting impatient, and I must not
keep him longer waiting. There, good bye!” and
bending down as she spoke, she pressed a kiss
upon his forehead, and turned quickly away.

“Farewell!” uttered he again, in a low, trembling
voice. “If we should never meet again,
Emily, remember I—I cannot tell you,” he
said, as she paused near the door—“so farewell!”
and he sunk back upon his pillow, and turned his
head away; while Emily, her heart beating with
strange emotions, quickly joined Edward.

As Emily approached, Edward could not but
perceive that she had been weeping; but wisely
choosing to make no comment thereon, he assisted
her to mount, and merely saying, “To the
north, Emily,” he led her horse forward in that
direction a short distance, and then yielding the
guidance wholly to her, walked along by her side.

Their departure had been marked with an eager
look, by a tall figure, standing a little distance in
the rear of the cottage—on whose features, as
they passed from his sight, played a strange, dark
smile; and muttering, “Now is my time!” he
turned quickly round, and abruptly disappeared.

Who was that figure? and what was the meaning
of those singular words?

2. CHAPTER II.

For some time Edward and Emily pursued
their way slowly and in silence, for in the hearts
of both were deep and powerful feelings. With
Emily herself, circumstances had combined to
depress her spirits with a gloominess seldom or
never felt before; for each thing that had transpired
of late, seemed to rush in upon her now, as
if to overwhelm and crush her beneath the gathering
weight. A thousand thoughts, black and
portentous as the clouds that herald a terrible
storm, came flitting like evil spirits through her
mind—each bearing its own dark and cheerless aspect—enlivened
by no ray of hope, no sunshine
of gladness. Even the temporary relief she had
found while talking with Rufus of the past and
of Edward, had, from her after thoughts, and the
contrast, served to produce only a painful reaction;
and although the one she loved—the one
she had extolled in such glowing language—was
now by her side, yet that very fact itself, instead
of making her joyful, only added to her grief.
And wherefore this?

We have, on a previous occasion, attempted to
give the reader an insight into the character of
Emily, which, if fully borne in mind, will be
sufficient to show why she was thus actuated. It
will be remembered we described her as very
sensitive, and self-sacrificing, and one incapable
of wounding the feelings of another, when it
was possible for her to avoid doing so without in
the end making matters still worse. It will be
remembered, too, we described her feelings in regard
to herself, and her doubtful parentage, as
being very painful; and also her attachment for
Edward—which, on this account, she deemed
herself compelled by a sense of duty to break
off—as being no less so. These were enough to
have made her sad, if not gloomy, even now;
for she knew the result of her decision must be
very painful both to Edward and herself; but the
events which had since transpired, had added
their sombre coloring to the already dark picture,
until not one bright spot remained. The strange
and awful appearance of John—as he stood like
a demon before her, overpowered by rage—was
still present to her vision; and his dark and terrible
words of threatening were still ringing in
her ears. What might be the result of that interview—to
what act of villainy on his part it
might tend—was impossible for her to foresee;
but, as we have shown, a heavy foreboding of
coming ill had settled on her spirit—a foreboding
she had found impossible to shake off. Had he
been a stranger who thus accosted her—or any
one not directly in the family with whom she had
been reared, and to whom, for a thousand little
acts of kindness, she felt herself so much indebted—she
would have related at once the whole occurrence,
that proper precautions might be taken
to secure her against violence. But as the case
stood, in the present instance, she did not feel
herself at liberty to do so—from the fact that,
knowing the strong temperaments of both father
and son, she foresaw consequences of a disagreeable
nature must naturally ensue, and that she,
however indirectly, would be the moving cause
of a rupture, and perhaps a disunion in the family;
and besides, too, she vaguely trusted the
whole affair would terminate in simply a threat;
that John might have uttered it, while in passion,
merely to intimidate her; and that when he
should come to himself, he would see his folly
and let it pass. This we say she hoped; but in
truth she doubted, and feared, and it troubled her
much notwithstanding. She longed to make
some one her confidant, and take advice regarding
the proper course for her to pursue; but she
knew of none in whose keeping the secret would
be safe—no, not even with Edward himself; for
in his earnest regard for her welfare, she knew
he would feel himself justified in at once laying
the matter before Webber, and even confronting
John himself, when probably a quarrel, and a
duel, perhaps, would be the result. No, she must
keep it locked in her own breast, and bear her
painful thoughts in silence. All these things,
together with the grief she felt for Rufus, and
the recollection of their solemn parting, and his
seeming prophetic words, were sufficient, as we
have said, to cloud Emily's naturally bright spirit
with a gloom she had never known before; and
pondering these all over in her mind, as she rode
along, she allowed her head to droop, and gazed
upon the ground with an abstracted air.

Edward, as he walked along by her side, was
also busy with thoughts of his own; and his eyes,
too, were bent on the ground, while the expression
of his features, if not sad, was at least solemn.
And what was there to cause this? We
answer, many things.

As the reader is aware, Edward's first interview
with Emily had been while a student in the city
of New York; and from that moment he had
felt that his future happiness or misery rested
with her; and, in consequence, he had studiously
sought to win her affections. In this, as the reader
is also aware, he had succeeded; and twice he
had offered her his hand; but although not exactly
refused, he had been put off with the plea
that both were yet too young, and that she could
not think of wedding him until he had asked and
obtained the consent of his parents. This with
him had been a severe drawback; for although
he felt he might succeed in gaining the consent of
his mother, yet he knew his father—who was a
wealthy merchant in St. Louis, and whose soul
was centered on gold—had, for years, in his own
mind, destined him to marry, so soon as both
parties were of the proper age, a distant relation—an
heiress of great wealth. That in this
alliance, money was all his father sought or cared
for, he believed; and the very thought that he
should thus give his hand for gold, was, to one of
his proud, noble spirit, repugnant in the extreme;
and he had fully determined in his own mind
such an event should never take place; and to
such an extreme will prejudice of this kind sometimes
carry a person of his temperament, that it
is a questionable point whether, had Emily herself
been the heiress, and he known it previously,
he had not on this account refused even her.

Convinced, at length, that though Emily ardently
loved him, she on this one point would remain
firm in her first decision, he had resolved—
after his interview with her on the night of the
opening of our story—to lay the whole affair before
his father, tell him exactly how matters were
in every particular, the hopelessness of his expecting
him to form another attachment, and
thus endeavor to win his consent. This he had
done, or rather had attempted to do; for scarcely
had he broached the subject, so that his father understood
the drift of it, ere the latter, in a terrible
passion, bade him begone, and never speak to him
of the like again—telling him he should never
marry one poorer than himself with his consent,
and that should he dare to marry without his consent,
he would both disown and disinherit him.

Although Edward had been in part prepared
for this, from knowing his father's worldly motives
and hasty temper, yet the result had been to
cause him great pain and despondency. But
though he might despond, Edward was not one
to despair, while there was even the faintest gleam
of hope remaining; and he had determined, as a
last resource, to see Emily, tell her all, offer her
his hand once more, and abide her decision.—
With this intent he had called upon her once
since that night; but owing to the severe illness
of Rufus, no opportunity had presented itself for
conversation on the subject, and he had resolved
upon to-day for his next meeting—which meeting,
as the reader knows, has already taken place.
Not being sufficiently in private in the cottage for
his purpose Edward, on this account, partly, and
partly on account of her gloomy appearance, had
been strenuous in urging Emily to ride forth. Occupied
in thinking on this subject, and how best to
introduce it, for a goodly distance kept Edward
silent, while Emily, as we have shown, was, from
various causes, silent also.

The longest soliloquy or meditation must come
to an end; and both Edward and Emily found
themselves suddenly aroused from their reveries
by a rather ludicrous circumstance. So intently
had their minds been fixed upon the matters just
recorded, that no attention whatever had been
paid by either to the course of the beast; which
having been left entirely free, thought, doubtless,
he had a perfect right to choose for himself, and
accordingly had quitted the path they supposed
themselves pursuing, and was, at this moment,
quietly endeavoring to force his way
through some dense shrubbery—the limbs of
which coming in rather severe contact with his
more reasoning companions, and some what startled
them.

What a strange, vacillating creature is a human
being! How changeable, and what an embodied
medley of inconsistencies! No sooner did Edward
and Emily look up at this interruption, see
the predicament in which they were placed, and
fully comprehend the ridiculous appearance of
their situation, than, in spite of their gloomy
thoughts, their dark forebodings, both were forced
into a gay laugh.

“Truly, Emily,” said Edward, with a smile, as
they turned back to retrace their steps, “this little
incident should prove warning sufficient that
we have both been too gloomy for a day so beautiful.
Look—how bright shines the sun! Listen—
how sweet and merrily sing the birds!”

“Right, Edward!” exclaimed Emily, with animation,
as she cast her eye over the scene, and
felt the poetry in her heart giving a warm
glow to her features. “Right, Edward! We
have no right to mar so joyful a scene as this by
gloomy thoughts! We, human beings, the noblest
creatures of Him who created all!—creatures
endowed with reason, and knowledge to comprehend
the beauty and magnificence of His works!
alone, as 'twere, too, with great Nature herself!
should we not be as happy as these sweet warblers
that comprehend nothing, and yet sing for
very joy? Oh,” she continued, with a sparkling
eye, and a deeper glow on her sweet features, while
her very form seemed to expand with the upreachings
of a full, a noble soul, “Oh, how these
very songsters rebuke me with their silvery tones,
for being east down, and seeing nothing but what
is black and cheerless, when God has placed me
in a world so bright and lovely, and given me
too an immortal spirit, to soar when done with
these into a brighter and more glorious realm of
light, where one sad thought can never come, nor
pain, nor aught but joy eternal!”

“Ah, now, now I see my Emily again!” cried
Edward, joyfully, whose eyes, bent on hers, were
sparkling with enthusiams, and whose features
were radiant with delight. “Go on, dear Emily,
go on! I could listen to those sweet tones forever!”

“Do you not think, Edward,” resumed Emily,
“that we make at least one-half of our misery by
letting imagination paint dark pictures instead of
bright ones?”

“Ay, and in many cases all,” answered Merton;
“for how often are we prone to imagine dire events
that never happen, and in that imagination undergo
more real misery than we would even in
the reality itself. And even when we are actually
suffering, if we look closely into ourselves, we
shall find, as a general thing, that that very suffering

rests almost entirely in the manner we
look upon it. Take as a proof of this, the terrible
fate of the ancient martyrs—who, when hooted
and reviled at by a barbarous crowd, and dragged
in chains to the stake, and there burnt alive, sung
psalms and smiled, until the red flames, more
mereiful than the inhuman monsters around, released
them. Did they not feel the pains of corporeal
punishment? They were flesh and blood
like ourselves, and just as sensitive to the touch;
but still they believed they were dying in a holy
cause, and hope taught them to look beyond the
present, and, aided by their imagination, they already
stood on the very threshold of Heaven and
felt happy. Let us then, Emily, if the present
seem dark, take a lesson from those martyrs, look
forward with bright hope to the future, and thus
meet our troubles with a smile!”

“Bright hope to the future,” repeated Emily,
with a sigh, as again the events of the last few
days came crowding upon her; “the future in
spite of me looks dark.”

“Again gloomy, Emily,” returned Merton,
with an earnest, tender look; “you who were
wont to be so buoyant and cheerful; there is some
deep cause for this, Emily, and I would fain
know what it is! But,” he added hastily, “I have
somewhat to tell you first, and on your answer
perhaps will depend my right to question you.”

A slight paleness overspread the features of Emily,
as though she already divined the nature of
the communication, her hand grasped the rein
tightly, and there was a slight nervous agitation
apparent in her features. Recovering herself by
a strong effort, she at length articulated calmly,
“Go on, Edward!”

“Not here,” said Edward. “Some half mile,
in this direction, is a beautiful spot, you remember,
near a murmuring stream, where we once
whiled away two of the sweetest hours of my life.
I will tell you there, Emily, for no other place
seems so appropriate.”

Emily bowed her head in token of assent, and
for some time rode on in silence, while Edward
kept his place by her side, but was silent also.—
About a quarter of a mile further on, they ascended
a slight elevation, which commanded a fair
prospect of the surrounding country, for a goodly
distance to the north and west—a prospect every
way delightful, variegated with woods and plains,
all clothed in the soft green robes of summer,
with here and there some sparkling stream winding
along with a laughing murmur, like the first
outpourings of a young, free heart. The day
was hot and somewhat sultry, yet as their course
had been mostly through a deep wood, it had not
been particularly oppressive; but as they gazed
over the scene described, each thing seemed fairly
reeling in the heat, while the sun now shone bright
and clear upon them.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Edward, shading
his face with his hand, to let his eye rest for a
moment upon the landscape.

“Very, very beautiful!” returned Emily, drawing
rein, and pausing to gaze upon it.

“Come, Emily,” said Edward, turning to her,
“do not tarry here—the heat is too excessive!—
Yonder I see the spot, which, since I rested there
with you, has ever lingered in my memory, and
often comes up in my dreams, like a something
too bright for reality. I would fain be there
again with you, even though for the last time.”

There was a tender melancholy in the voice of
Edward as he spoke, that touched the heart of
his fair hearer, and caused her to turn her head
away with a sad expression—but she returned no
answer. Again moving onward, a few minutes
served to bring them to the place mentioned,
which was a delightful one truly, and seemed just
fitted for an arbor of love. It was a flat piece of
ground, sloping gently to the north, shaded by
tall, wide-branching trees, and free from underbrush,
through the centre of which glided
with a soothing melody, a clear, sparkling streamlet,
by whose side lay the trunk of an old tree, fast
crumbling back to that dust from which it sprang
—a gentle warning, as 'twere, to those young beings
now approaching, that at the longest but a
little time could elapse ere a similar fate would be
theirs. The ground was smooth, and carpeted
with rank grass, interspersed with various kinds of
wild flowers, which added a beauty to what must
even otherwise have been accounted beautiful.—
Occasionally throughout the grove might be seen
some gay squirrel, bounding merrily away with a
ringing chirup, while handsome plumed birds
fluttered and sung in the branches of the trees.—
It was not Paradise, and yet Paradise need scarcely
have been more lovely.

“Yonder, Emily,” said Edward, as they entered
the grove, “by that sweet singing streamlet, is
the old tree which served us for a seat when here
before—let us try it again;” and he assisted Emily
to dismount, who immediately advanced towards
it with a trembling step and a palpitating
heart, for she felt she was about to experience the
most trying period of her life. Securing his
horse to a neighboring tree, Merton quickly joined
her.

“Here,” he resumed, in a voice slightly trembling,
after pausing a few moments to collect his
thoughts, and, if truth must be said, gain courage
for the undertaking; “here, Emily, where we are
alone—with Nature around and God above—in a
spot that is lovely enough to be consecrated to
love and all things holy—where the voice of man
but seldom intrudes—here, where there are no
ears to listen but our own—here have I led you
to harken to my tale and decide my fate.”

Emily bent down her eyes, her features grew
pale, and her hands trembled—but she answered
not; and Edward, after gazing upon her a moment
in silence, again resumed.

“Two years since, Emily, as you are aware,
we met for the first time, in the city of New
York. It is almost needless to repeat what I long
ere this have told you, and more than once, that
then, for the first time, I knew what it was to
love. To praise each particular grace or charm
that captivated me, would be too much like the
idle flattery of the world; suffice, that I saw
enough in you to win my affections, and I loved
you—loved you purely—as I never more can love
another. I fancied too, and not without cause,
that my passion was returned; and waiting a suitable
time and opportunity, I declared my feelings,
and offered you my hand. You did not refuse
me, or I should certainly never have troubled
you again; but you asked if my parents were
aware of this; and on my replying in the negative,
said that perchance they would refuse their
consent, because you were poor; that we were
both too young to fully know our own minds;
that in an undertaking like this, the journeying
through life as companions, we should be well
assured that nothing hereafter would cause us to
regret having chosen hastily; that time would be
the proper test to prove whether in sincerity we

both loved, or whether it was merely a fancy.
This was your reply; and although I was then
fully satisfied that for one I should never so love
another, yet I felt the force of your answer, and
acquiesced. That, Emily, was fifteen months
ago; and though with you after that, almost daily,
until my return to the West, wherein you accompanied
me—and very often in your society
since—yet never did I directly speak on this subject
again, till the evening of your capture, when
I again asked you to be mine—again offered you
my hand. You did not refuse me then—no, you
even told me you loved me; which, although I
fully believed before, yet hearing from your own
sweet lips, made my heart bound with rapture;
but at the same time you stated you were poor,
and consequently were not my equal in this; and
that you could not consent, unless assured of the
consent of my parents.

“'Tis true, Emily, that in many things we should
consult and take the advice of those who have
reared us from infancy—but it does not follow we
should in all, particularly in matters of the heart;
and when, too, a person like myself has arrived
at the age of discretion, and knows what is the
most conducive to his own happiness.

“Think, dear Emily, think even for a moment
seriously upon it, and your kind heart will tell
you it is wrong—very, very wrong—for those
who have passed, or are passing, into the decline
of life, and have lost in part, or by a rude contact
with a selfish world benumbed, those fine and
holy feelings of love, which entwining around
the heart of youth, soften and make it green, even
as the ivy around the oak adds beauty and gentleness
to its appearance; wrong, I say, for those
to dictate to the young—who are full of the joys
and poetry of the morning of life—where they
shall give their hand; and this, too, when mercenary
considerations are their ruling motives for
so doing; and by this make them unhappy, and
destroy all the sweets of existence—forcing them
to sigh for the final rest of the cold and silent
grave. Think upon it, Emily, and how inconsistent
does it appear. What has money to do
with the heart? Can it ease one pang? Can it
still one pulsation? Can it make us forget to
think upon the past—upon those we have loved?
Can it make us escape ourselves? Can it procure
us a higher seat in Heaven? Can it add to our
devotions to an all-seeing God? Can it purchase
one really happy moment? No, dear Emily, it
can do none of these. Then wherefore should
we make ourselves miserable—wherefore throw
away the happiness already in our grasp, for its
weight of misery, even though a mine of gold be
put in the balance? And then, too, how inconsistent
that we should be forced into these measures
by those who should seek our happiness?—
who, as I said before, are rapidly approaching old
age and dissolution, and whom we have a right to
suppose, by the regular order of events, will long
precede us to the tomb,—how inconsistent that
we should be made wretched to please them, who
will soon leave us alone, to drink deep of sorrow,
and entail it upon our posterity. No, no, dear
Emily, this should not be! Parents may advise
in such matters, but they have no right, by the
laws of either God or man, to usurp authority,
and become dictators and tyrants! So soon as
they do this, they overstep their proper limits, and
sever the tie of consanguinity.”

Edward spoke gently, in a calm, earnest, musical
tone, with his head turned towards Emily, and
his dark hazel eye resting tenderly upon her
while she, as he went on, becoming deeply interested,
gradually raised her head, and now sat with
her soft blue eyes looking with a mournful sweetness
into his, with that peculiar expression which
can never be mistaken for other than one of love.
Edward noticed these changes with a beating
heart—for he fancied in them were favorable augeries
to his fondest hopes—and with a cheek
slightly flushed, and a voice perhaps a little more
passionate, he still went on.

“Such, dear Emily, as I have pointed out as
most reprehensible in parents, are, I grieve to say,
the ruling motives of mine. I would not say
aught to wrong those who gave me birth—who
watched over me in infancy, and reared me in
affluence—no, far be it from me to do this, or
willingly wound their feelings; yet as much as
I may love and respect them, I must respect myself,
nor allow myself to be sold for gold. Nay,
interrupt me not—I see you do not understand,
so listen!

“My father is wealthy—very wealthy—and
might, were he so disposed, do much good, and
make many a poor being around him, as well as
his own son, happy. But alas and alas, dear Emily,
he has made money his God—at whose shrine
he sacrifices all those high and noble feelings,
which, rightly exercised, almost make a god of
man! Without seeking to know my feelings on
the subject, he has, in his ambitious dreams, bestowed
my hand where my heart is not, upon one
whose sufficient merit in his eyes, is, that she can
more than balance the scale with him in gold.—
You grow pale, Emily—but fear not, sweet one,
and listen!

“When I parted with you on that eventful
night, I did so with the determination of telling
my father all, and gaining, if possible, his consent
to our union. To this end I seized upon the first
opportunity, when in private, and began my story.
But alas, Emily, all hope of that was soon
over! He heard me but a few moments, and then
in rage spurned me from his presence, and said
that did I marry without his consent, he would
both disown and disinherit me, and that his consent
should never be given to my union with one
poorer than himself. I forgot not he was my
father, and quitted his sight without reply—never
to speak with him on the like again. And now,
dear Emily, my fate rests with you. I have
sought you to tell you all, and offer you once
more my hand. I am sorry, for your sweet sake,
I have not wealth to offer—for my own I care
not. I am young, and strong, and thank God, I
have a good education, which, with proper energy,
will enable me to go through the world with
ease, if I but have one sweet being to cheer me
on! Wealth I do not seek—I may add, do not
want. If you are willing to share with me the
struggles of life—the good and ill—'tis all I ask
to make me happy; and to make you so, dear Emily,
I will toil early and late—will be ambitious,
and seek to win a name you shall be proud of.

“Ponder well, dear Emily, ere you decide—
and let no false notions of the world, what it will
think or say, sway you now—for by your answer
I shall abide. Remember on the words
which you are about to utter hang the destiny of
both; and once said, are registered in God's book
in Heaven, and beyond recall! You have had
time sufficient ere this, to know your own mind,
and whether you will be content to be mine, even
while dark clouds are lowering around me. If

you are poor, remember so am I, and therefore
in this shall be your equal; but above all, dear
Emily, if you have any hesitation, I charge you
think well—think well—ere you pronounce the
sentence which shall sever us forever!—for if you
reject me now, in this world we shall never, never
meet again; and whatever my unhappy fate may
be, it shall be yours to bear with you, even to your
bed of death, the solemn reflection that it was
once in your power to have elevated and made me
happy! I have done, dear Emily, and tremblingly
listen for your reply.”

During the latter part of his remarks, Emily's
head had sunk upon her breast, her eyes were bent
down, while her cheeks paled and flushed alternately.
For some time after the mournful cadence of
his loved voice had ceased to sound in her ear, she
sat mute, and, save now and then a slight tremor,
immovable; while Edward, with his eyes intently
fastened upon her, gazed as one who awaits an
answer of life or death. At length Emily, in a
low voice, without raising her head, articulated:

“Have you considered, Edward, that I am almost
a homeless wanderer, who knows nothing of
my parentage?”

“I have considered all, dear Emily—everything
—for this with me has been no hasty undertaking.”

“Then take me, Edward!” cried Emily, impulsively,
suddenly looking up, and turning her soft
blue eyes, moist with tears, sweetly upon him:—
“Take me, dear Edward, I am thine, thine forever!”

“Bless you, bless you, my own, dearest Emily,
for those sweet, sweet words!” and bounding forward,
Edward caught her in his arms, strained her
for a few moments to his heart in silence, and
then bending down, impressed upon her soft lips
the first rapturous, hely kiss of love. It was a
moment of bliss to be felt, but never to be described.

“When I came here, dear Edward,” said Emily,
at length, gazing up into his face with a look of
love, while she still reclined against his breast,
“it was to tell you we must part; but you have
conquered, and henceforth and forever I am thine.”

Edward, his soul too full to vent itself in idle
words, again strained her to his heart in silence,
while the soft voice of the bright streamlet that
colled sweetly along at their feet, sent up a quiet
melody that found an echo in the hearts of both.

Seating themselves once more upon the fallen
tree, Edward and Emily, fresh in the mutual and
holy confidence of two hearts pledged to one destiny,
passed two bright hours unheeded, in the
interchange of the thoughts and feelings awakened
in the breasts of each. We say two bright
hours unheeded—for when did love take note of
time? Had the two hours been four, to them it
had been the same, and would have seemed but as
many minutes. At the end of the time mentioned,
however, they were aroused to a consciousness
of the outer world, by hearing the booming
sound of heavy thunder; and on looking up with
a start, from a conversation the most happy, they
were surprised to find it already growing dark,
from the black heavy clouds of an approaching
storm having already obscured the rays of the
sun. Owing to the density of a wood covering a
hill on the opposite side of the streamlet, our lovers
were unable to obtain a view of the shower,
which was approaching from that direction.

“Ha, that is near!” exclaimed Merton, starting
to his feet, as following not long after a bright
flash, came the heavy booming of another peal of
thunder. “We must make all haste home, Emily,
or we shall be caught in the rain. Ha!” cried
he again, pointing to the west, “I see the point of
an angry cloud just rising over the brow of yon
hill. The storm is nearer than I thought. Come,
dear Emily, let us haste—let us haste;” and seizing
her by the hand as he spoke, both sprang
quickly towards the horse, which stood some twenty
paces distant, with his bridle-rein made fast to
the limb of a tree.

Whether their sudden movements startled him,
or whether he was just at this instant stung by
some insect, matters not; but scarcely had our
lovers advanced to within ten paces of the animal,
when he threw himself suddenly back, and pulled
with all his force upon the bridle. Merton instantly
darted forward, but was too late. The
rein broke, and with a roguish shake of the head,
and a slight neigh, Sir Harry bounded gaily away.

“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Merton; “just
at this moment too when time is so precious. But
be not alarmed, Emily, he will not go far, and I
will soon overtake him. Stay you here. In five
minutes I will be with you; and then we must
both ride, and ride hard!”

“Be sure you be not long,” returned Emily, in
a voice that trembled from a sudden fear she could
not account for, while her cheeks grew pale from
the same cause; “be sure you be not long, Edward!”

As the latter predicted, the beast did not go
far; for from the gallop in which he set off,
he shortly slackened to a trot, finally paused altogether,
and amused himself by cropping some
herbage until his master came up, which, notwithstanding,
occupied some minutes. Hastily
tying together the broken reins, Edward threw
them over Sir Harry's neck, bounded upon the
saddle, and rode quickly back to where he had left
Emily; but, strange to say, she was nowhere to
be seen.

At first astonishment siezed upon Merton that
she should absent herself at such a critical time;
but astonishment soon gave way to alarm—alarm
to horror—when on calling her name loudly several
times no answer was returned but the gloomy
echo of his own voice. What could it mean—
where had she gone, and what terrible fate
had befallen her, that she did not return? were
questions which he asked himself with a wildness
bordering upon insanity, while he rode up and
down and through the grove, still calling at the extent
of his voice her dearly loved name. Could
she have been seized by some wild beast? Edward
thought, and shuddered, and felt his brain
reel. He sprang from his horse and examined the
ground around where she had stood—but no, there
were no marks of blood or violence; besides, had
this been the case, he would have heard her
screams. What could it mean? Springing upon
his horse again, for some three quarters of an hour
he rode wildly to and fro, calling upon her sweet
name—but, alas! in vain—she answered not.

In the meantime the shower had been steadily
approaching, and already now a few large drops,
precursors of what was to follow, fell with a rattling
sound upon the trees. Night advancing
also, had already began to robe objects in her
sombre mantle, while the lightning flashed fiercely,
and the thunder followed quickly, crash on
crash. Merton, forced into the belief that a longer
search was useless, and hurried away by the storm
and a faint hope that she might, fearing delay

while he was absent, have started for home, alone,
now buried the rowels in the animal's sides; and
although the distance was three good miles, in less
than fifteen minutes his horse stood panting at
Webber's door. By this time it had become very
dark, and the rain was falling in torrents, while
the lightning flashed and the thunder roared as incessantly
as ever. The party had just returned,
and their horses were still standing in front of the
cottage, where they had been left until the storm
should abate. Webber was standing in the door.

“Has Emily arrived?” cried Edward, breathlessly.

“Good heavens! Edward,” exclaimed he, “is she
not with you? Speak—speak!”

“Oh God!” ejaculated Merton, wringing his
hands in agony, “she is lost—she is lost!”

“Lost!” screamed Webber, rushing forth; “great
God! what mean you?” In a few hurried words
Merton explained what had chanced, while Bernard,
Tyrone and Mrs. Webber, hearing the exclamations,
reached the door in time to learn all.

“Mount—mount!” cried Webber, springing
upon one of the horses, while Bernard and Tyrone
quickly followed his example. “Mount and
away, for we must find her!” A minute later,
all four were riding as if for life—Merton in advance.
A groan drew Mrs. Webber's attention
to her son. On entering the room she found Rufus
had fainted. He had heard enough to know
that Emily was lost, and that, as he had predicted,
they would never meet again on earth.

The search of the party proved fruitless, and
towards morning they returned. It was renewed
the next day, and the next, and the next; and yet
on the third night they had found no traces—
gleaned no tidings of Emily. It was a severe blow
to all—to Webber and Merton in particular.

Leaving them to their search, however, in ignorance
of her fate, we will turn to the cause of
our fair heroine's sudden and mysterious disappearance,
and the wherefore she did not return.

3. CHAPTER III.

Scarcely had Edward departed, and while Emily
stood gazing on his retreating form, with a secret
fear, the cause of which she was unable to
divine, when two figures, their faces concealed by
masks, approached her stealthily from behind,
threw a bandage over her mouth to prevent her
cries for help, raised her in their brawny arms,
and, without a word, bore her speedily away—directly
past the fallen tree, where she had but a
few minutes before in a happy confidence plighted
herself to him she loved—across the silvery
stream that had the while sung its seeming song
of love—up into the dark wood of the hill beyond.
Here for a moment they paused to rest, and then,
without speaking, again bore her onward some
three hundred yards, still deeper into the wood,
and farther from him who should have been there
to protect her. When they paused again, it was
beside two powerful horses, on one of which she
was instantly mounted in front of one of her captors,
while his companion, springing into the sad
dle, led the way, as fast as the ground would permit,
in a westerly direction. At this moment
Emily heard in the distance the voice of Edward
calling upon her name, and a keen pang shot
through her soul. Her captors heard it also, but
with very different feelings; for the one in advance,
turning to his companion, said:

“We's jest in time Saxton, for if we'd a been a
little sooner or a little later, we'd a have to put a
veto on the tune of that ar' gentleman—and you
know that was strictly agin orders.”

“Right, Niles, we jest hit the proper moment;
but isn't that the feller what frightened you off
in the morning, afore you'd got the old gentleman
fairly tied?”

“Why that's the chap that rode up, it's true;
but I don't like the idea of your callin' it frightened
off—for if it hadn't a bin you know, that
we wasn't to hurt him, I'd a made a different
business on't altogether. As 'twas, I thought I'd
run.”

“And git shot?”

“Yes, so it turned out it seems—though I only
lost two fingers by the operation, and by—!
I'll be even for them yit, if I live long enough.—
But you didn't do anything to brag on, in lettin
them ar' two fellers whip three on ye, and kill
one at that!”

The other replied only by uttering a terrible
oath, and setting his teeth hard.

“Well,” resumed Niles, “it was an ugly business,
take it all round, and we got the worst on'tBill
was killed—Jack had his face badly battered,
and another ball through his arm, which may be
'll do him too—you got a sore head, and I lost two
fingers; while Besley, whose legs was a leetle the
longest, got off clear. But I say, Sax., jest tie a
handkerchief over that ar' gal's eyes, so she can't
examine directions, you know that's orders, and
then let's ride—for ye see its gittin' dark in these
ere woods, and a big shower to back it.”

In a moment Emily found her eyes bandaged,
and then she could feel the horses urged on to
greater speed, while peal on peal, each nearer than
the last, came to her ear the thunder of the approaching
storm. Poor girl! she felt it was useless
to struggle against her destiny, whatever it
might be, and commending herself to the care of
Him who watches alike over the powerful and defenceless,
she resigned herself to her fate. Her
captors had again become silent, and on, on they
rode for some half hour, as fast as the beasts could
carry them. At the end of the time mentioned,
they came to a halt by some dwelling, and Emily
could hear the low murmur of several other voices
in hurried conversation. At length one more
loud, and in dictation, struck her ear with a familiar
sound, and fairly made her blood run cold.
It was the voice of John Webber.

“You will stop here and refresh until this storm
has passed, which it will have done in less than
two hours, and then you must mount and on
again till you reach the point designated, for this
side of there it will not do to remain. I must return
this night, or I may be suspected. Jack is
too badly wounded to be your company. Between
ourselves, I fear his day is over. Hetty
will go with you, and in her charge you can trust
her. You know the route, so that you can follow
it in the night, do you not?”

“We do,” answered the voice of Niles.

“'Tis well. Thus far your parts have been admirably
performed. Complete as well, and you
shall have a suitable reward. I do not ask your

services for nothing. But come, come, dismount
and enter, for already the rain I see approaching.
Feed well your horses. I must this moment
away.” As the voice concluded, Emily heard
the tramping of another horse, fast growing distant,
and felt herself seized and borne under some
shelter, on which, a few moments after, the rain
dashed violently, while she was almost stunned by
the oft repeated crashing of the thunder.

The storm raged for upwards of an hour, and
then ceased. In the course of two hours, Emily
was again mounted, and borne away, while she
became aware of the party being increased by an
additional member—a woman—which was at all
events some consolation, although she could
neither speak nor see, owing to the bandages being
still kept around her mouth and eyes. On,
on the party dashed; now up some steep bluff;
now down into some deep dingle; now through a
forest and tangled brushwood; now over a barren,
sandy, open plain; now through streams whose
waters swollen by the late rain rolled on with a
sullen murmur—on, on they went, heeding no
obstruction, rarely ever speaking to each other;
on, on—still on—while hour after hour went by,
and yet no pause. At length they halted once
more to gain some refreshment, and Emily felt
herself removed from the horse she had ridden to
another, and again they went on. At last, wearied
by excitement and travel, Emily, in spite of
her struggles to the contrary, gradually sunk into
the arms of Morpheus, and for the time her trials
and troubles were forgotten.

As when we fall asleep in some quiet spot with
no sounds near, a gentle shake or noise will wake
us, so when we sink into slumber amid confusion,
silence will produce the same effect—and
Emily was awakened by the party again coming to
a halt. On opening her eyes—for during the latter
part of her ride the bandage around them had fallen
off—she found herself in a wild, mountainous region,
with nothing cheering around, no habitation
and no human beings near—save, in the first instance,a
kind of half cave and hovel in the side of a
steep mountain, formed of wood, rocks and clay;
and, in the last, the rough, ugly visages of her two
captors, and the face of Hetty Brogan, whom she
recognised with a thrill of joy, from the fact that
she was a woman, and that her face was familiar,
although she had never seen it but once before,
and then under circumstances by no means pleasant;
still it was at least the face of a woman, one
too she had seen before, and it gave her joy.

“Well, we're here at last, Saxton,” said Niles;
“though we've had a tolerable tough night on't.”

“Ay, we've had all o' that, Niles, and I reckon
as how he'll have to pay well for't. See, the sun
already shines on yonder hill, and we've traveled
all night. Our poor horses, as well as us, are confoundedly
tired, although we've changed once on
the way. Well, let's in with the gal and be off—
that's all o' our part, you know, for Hetty'll have
to tend to the rest. About five miles from here's
a good place for feedin' and restin', so let's be a
movin';” and dismounting while speaking, Saxton
assisted Emily to do the same, while Hetty,
following his example, threw her bridle rein to
Niles, who still remained in the saddle. “Thar',
Hetty,” continued Saxton, turning to her, and
pointing to Emily, “you'll be responsible for the
rest; so good bye, old woman;” and springing
upon his horse again, he turned away and rode
slowly down the hill, followed by Niles, who also
led the beast which had borne Hetty hither.

“I'm glad you're gone,” said Hetty, gazing after
them with no very amiable expression; “for I
can al'ays breathe a great deal easier when you
don't breathe the same air. Come, lady, you've
had a hard ride for one of your tender breeding;”
and Hetty turned to Emily with a compassionate
look, “and you're pale and troubled, gal; so come,
come, let's in; but stop, they shan't keep that ar'
thing round your jaws no longer;” and Hetty
removed the bandage from Emily's mouth.

“Oh, Hetty, good Hetty,” cried Emily, in an
entreating tone, as soon as she could speak, “Oh,
good Hetty, where am I, and why was I brought
hither? Oh, speak, speak, and tell me, good Hetty!”

“Thar', thar', jest stop now, and don't go to
calling me good Hetty, 'cause I arn't no such a
thing. I haint did nothin' good for more'n sixteen
year, so don't call me good! But come, gal,
come, let's in;” and taking Emily by the hand,
she led the way into the hovel-cave just mentioned,
without giving her a word of explanation.

It was a gloomy place—part natural, part artificial—in
one of the wildest and most dismal spots
to be found on the mountains lining the banks of
the Osage. It had evidently but just been constructed
or refitted, for the earth within—the only
floor it could boast—was soft and fresh, as though
lately placed there by the spade. The roof was
formed of a large projecting rock, partly embedded
in the mountain, and the sides and front of
stones, brush and earth thrown compactly together.
It could boast a rude door, which was,
with the exception of two loop holes, the only
place to admit light and air. Within was a rough
table, whereon lay a tinder box and candle—one or
two rough benches made of logs—and a rude pen
at one end, filled with straw, which was to answer
the purpose of a bed. Such was the apartment
into which Hetty and Emily now entered—the
latter with feelings of horror and disgust.

“Oh, Hetty,” exclaimed Emily, as she glanced
around, “I beseech you tell me what this means,
and why I have been stolen from home and
brought hither!”

“'Pon my soul, lady,” answered Hetty, “I
don't know no more'n you do! We poor womens
has to obey orders sometimes without asking questions;
and all I knows is, that I've got to tend 'pon
ye till he comes.”

“Who comes?” cried Emily.

“Why that ar' young man as had you stolen.”

“Was it John Webber?” asked Emily, breathlessly.

“Why ye see I arn't to mention names, 'cause
its agin orders. You might guess worse, though,
I reckon.”

“Oh Heaven, 'tis he!” exclaimed Emily, clasping
her hands. “I feared, I feared 'twas so!—
Base, base man, he designs to work my ruin! Oh
God, Father of the innocent and defenceless, I
pray thee protect me in this trying hour, and deliver
me from the hands of those who would do
me wrong!”

“I don't think as how he means to hurt you,
lady,” said Hetty; “though 'twixt us I think he's
a bad man.”

“If he did not wish to do me wrong, why did
he tear me away from those I love, and bear me
beyond the reach of friends?” asked Emily.

“Well, I can't answer ye,” replied Hetty; “and
besides, I've broke orders in what I've done already—so
you musn't ask me no more questions,
gal, 'cause I'll have to refuse to speak to ye!”

“Heaven help me!” groaned Emily; and casting
herself upon one of the benches, she bowed
her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

“I hate to see ye cry, lady,” said Hetty, in a
softened tone; “I do indeed!” and as she gazed
upon Emily, her brown, ugly, weather-beaten
features assumed an expression of tender compassion.
“Give me your hand, gal! I sometimes
tell fortins.”

Emily mechanically obeyed, and Hetty, after
looking on the palm of it a moment, continued:—
“Thar's trouble here, gal, and no mistake. I see
the lines is crossed and cut up badly; but thar's
one, the line of life, as runs out on't smoothly—
so don't be afeard, cause it'll all turn out right in
the end, depend on't!”

“But when is he to come?” enquired Emily,
not heeding the last remarks of Hetty.

“Thar', I shan't answer ye no more!” returned
Hetty, who felt offended that her fortune
telling powers had been thus slighted. “I'll not
answer ye agin, so don't speak to me!” and true
to her word, from that moment Emily could get
nothing out of her. Left to herself and her own
gloomy reflections—apprehending something terrible
to come—with Emily, the day, as might be
conjectured, wore wearily away. And what was
to happen? What was to be her fate—away from
home and friends, and no voice to whisper in her
ear a single word of consolation and hope? And
John—a man she believed capable of any act
however devilish—what was his design upon
her? She remembered his dark, mysterious words
of threatening, and shuddered. Oh! why had she
not made them known, and been saved this terrible
result? And Edward, what must be his feelings
to find her gone so suddenly, and no trace
left whereby he could glean an inkling of her fate?
And her guardian too, how must he feel?—and
Rufus, whose prophetic words were sounding like
a death-knell in her ear? She might in truth
never see him again on earth. Alas—alas—poor
girl! as one by one such thoughts as these came
rushing through her brain, she felt her head throb
and ache, and deemed but little more would drive
her mad. Thus passed one of the longest days of
her life.

Towards night Hetty placed some refreshments
on the table, which she had found in a basket;
but Emily refused to eat, and early retired to her
rude bed, only to pass a horrible night of feverish
anxiety, and to dream, whenever she slept, strange
fantastic dreams, that awoke her with a shuddering
start. The next morning she arose with red,
swollen eyes, and a pale, sickly look. She endeavored
to eat a little to support nature, for she
felt herself growing weak, but her stomach refused
food; and faint, and exhausted, she retired
again to her pallet of straw. From time to time
Hetty glanced at her with an uneasy, anxious
look, but still said nothing. As the day wore
on, Emily began to feel more and more the horrors
of her situation—her brain was pressed to
bewilderment. What was to be her fate? This
silent suspense was terrible—terrible! It was taking
away her reason!—and she felt that any
fate, even death itself, would be preferable to this
brain-wrought torture. Noon came, but brought
no relief; and as the afternoon waned away, Emily
felt she was growing mad. At length she
started up and listened. She fancied she heard a
distant footfall. A few moments of anxiety confirmed
it, and she could hear distinctly the tramp
of a horse. Then it paused, and Emily's heart
beat fast. Presently she heard a rustling of the
bushes. The sound came nearer and nearer.—
It was a joyful sound, let what would follow. It
was a relief from that dull, death-like weariness
of suspense. Nearer and nearer it came, till at
length the tall, dark figure of John Webber filled
the entrance. Emily sunk back upon her pallet
with strange, deep feelings. It was the one she
wished, yet dreaded to see. He might relieve her
from suspense, only to plunge her into more fearful
reality. Without ceremony, without even
noticing Hetty, John strode directly towards Emily,
and when within a few feet of her paused.—
As he caught a full view of her features, there
was a slight start of surprise apparent in his own.
He could scarcely credit so great a change, in
so short a time.

“Well, Emily, and so we meet here!” were
the first words he uttered, in a tone somewhat
stern.

“Oh, John,” said Emily, casting upon him a
look of imploring anguish, that would have moved
to tears of pity any heart less hard than his:—
“Oh, John, how could you be so cruel—to take
me, who have been reared in your father's family,
taught to look upon you as a brother, and
treat you at all times as a friend—how could you
take me away from home, and all I love, by the
hands of ruffians, and bring me to this wild, uninhabited
region? Oh, what have I ever done,
that I should receive such treatment at your
hands?”

“Refused me!” replied John, contracting his
brows.

“Refused you, because I did not, could not
love you,” returned Emily, “and because I would
not perjure myself before God and man, by accepting
your hand, and swearing to love and
cherish you. But is this to excuse you before
high Heaven for an act so base?”

“I seek no excuse for my acts!” answered John,
smiling with one of his devilish smiles. “Rail
on, Emily—rail on!—but when you have done,
please inform me why you think you were brought
hither by my commands!” and he turned his dark
eye upon Hetty, who trembled and grew pale.

“I myself heard you giving directions, at the
place where my captors first paused,” replied
Emily, noticing his glance and the agitation of
Hetty. “Blame her not for this—for if your
commands to her were silence, I can answer that
you have been strictly obeyed. Since yesterday
morning, not three words has she spoken; and to
all my entreaties to the contrary has turned a deaf
ear.”

“'Tis well,” said John, “that she has not forgotten
her duty. And so it seems you recognised
my voice. Well, since you know all, perhaps
'tis better. I will not disguise that it is by my
will and acts you are here. I saw you when you
departed with that fellow Merton, and I judged
by the course you took where you might be found.
I knew, too, where were some bold spirits, who
would not fail to obey my commands, even were
those commands to murder; and I immediately
informed them of your whereabouts, and what
they must perform for me. Their task has been
well executed, for you are here in my power.—
What you are here for, I presume you know; but
lest you should feign ignorance, I will inform you.
You will remember an interview we had a short
time since, during which I offered, and you refused
my hand. I then swore you should be
mine, and you are here to fulfil that oath. The

matter you perceive is simple, and easily understood.”

“But, John, I told you then I could not love
you!”

“And I told you then, Emily, it mattered not.
Love—pshaw!—what is it? A mere fancy of a
brain disordered, or intoxicated—whichever you
like--by the silly romance of youth, ere the mind
has fully settled upon the realities of life. A strange
something that afflicts some people in the head, as
the nightmare does others in the body. Thank
Heaven, I was never troubled with either complaint!”

“Even were I to set love aside, I could not be
yours!” rejoined Emily.

“Wherefore?”

“My hand is pledged to another.”

“Ha! is it so? Well, then, you must break that
pledge.”

“But surely, John, there must be some pity in
your heart! Oh, do not--do not drive me to hate
one I have ever been taught to look upon as a
brother! Oh, I beg of you, release me—return
me to my home, and I will bless you! I know
you are a child of passion, and one who in moments
of excitement would be likely to err; but
oh! bring calm reflection to your aid, and retrieve
ere too late the wrong you have done me! Do
this, John, do this, and you shall never have cause
to repent it! I will do all in my power to make
you happy; and I solemnly swear to you, from
my lips shall never pass an accusation or reproach!
I will strictly conceal, as I have concealed your
threat, that aught of anything but kind regards
ever passed between us. Oh, will you not do this,
and make me happy, and others, and yourself
happy also?”

“On one condition, Emily, I will release you.”

“Name it!” cried Emily, breathlessly.

“That you will swear to be mine at the altar.”

“Oh, you know I cannot do this, John, so wherefore
urge me?”

“I know you must do this, or worse!” returned
John, with a dark look.

“No, no, no!” cried Emily; “you cannot, cannot
be so cruel, John!”

“I see you do not know me!” said John, with
another devilish smile.

“But what motive can induce you to destroy
the happiness of a poor, nameless, I might add,
homeless girl, who never did you wrong? No,
no! you cannot—I will believe you cannot be
so cruel!”

“I see you do not know me!” repeated John;
“no—nor even know yourself. You say you
are a nameless girl—but therein you err. Listen!
Six months ago, when you came on from
New York, I was struck with your appearance;
and thinking much on you, your kindness to me
in days gone by, and your affability then, I felt
for you what some enthusiastic youth would
probably term love; but which I, in a more matter
of fact way, simply termed a fancy, or an attachment.
Thinking much on this, I finally resolved
you should be mine at a no distant day. A resolve
with me is but the precursor of a result—
as I do not like to break one, for fear of setting
myself a bad example. Well, to cut matters
short, I saw you a few days since—alone—told
you of my intention, and you refused me. That,
even that of itself, Emily, had been enough to
tempt me to almost any extreme, rather than fail
in my design—but to that was shortly added
another and more important inducement. You
of course remember the conversation in my
father's house on the evening of that day. You
will remember, too, it was then suggested that
the Jew might have in his possession proofs of
your parentage. The suggestion seemed to me
a good one, as I had other reasons for thinking
the same. Well, on that same night—while you
were probably sleeping and dreaming of love, or
some other foolish thing--I saw the Jew and obtained
those proofs.”

“Ah, then he had proofs!” cried Emily, suddenly,
a gleam of joy passing over her pale, careworn
features.

“Ay, he had proofs,” answered John, “which
proofs are now in my possession, and I trust are
sufficient to establish you an heiress of noble
birth.”

“O joy—joy!” exclaimed Emily, with a radiant
smile upon her countenance. “At least then I
am not of mean parentage. O, have you the
papers with you?”

“They are here;” and John placed his hand
upon his breast.

“O, let me behold them, and learn who I
am!”

“On the one condition you shall have the full
benefit of them—without complying with that,
you shall never see them. It is now in your
power to choose, wealth and a name, or poverty
and disgrace. If you accept my hand, you shall
be rich—refuse, and you shall see of what deeds
I am capable! I do not ask your decision now—
you shall have a few hours to deliberate. I have
business which calls me away; but ere to-morrow's
dawn I shall be here again, and then you
must decide! Ponder well upon it, girl, and do
not force me to extremes! Remember you are
here, in my power, and beyond the reach of assistance.
If you decide to accept my hand, all
shall be well; but if you persist in your obstinacy,
then know, girl”--and his dark eyes fastened
upon her gleamed strangely—“then know, girl,
there is a way to make even one as proud and
high-born as you, glad to accept the hand even
of a man as base and low-born as I. I pray you
drive me not to extremes! Mine you must be,
by fair means or foul!”

“Oh, God!” groaned Emily, burying her face
in her hands, while a cold shudder passed over
her.

“Remember your decision!” and John turned
upon his heel to depart. As he did so, his eye
fell upon Hetty, and with a start he advanced
rapidly to her, caught her by the wrist, while she
trembled and grew white with fear.

“You have heard what you should not!” he
said, in a low, hurried tone, his eyes glaring upon
her with an awful expression. “My secret is in
your possession. Secrets of desperate men are
sometimes dangerous. Beware—beware! Breathe
but a word, be it never so light, of what you have
here seen and heard, or shall see and hear henceforth,
and this bright steel (partly drawing a dagger)
shall revel in your heart's blood! Remember—remember!”
and with this he strode to the
door and disappeared.

For some moments Hetty remained in the position
he had left her, pale and trembling; and then
proceeding to the door herself, she gazed down the
hill, and saw him mount his horse and ride away,
with feelings that boded him no good. When
fully assured he was gone, she glanced cautiously
around,—as if to be certain no person was lurking
about the premises—and then closing the door,

with a trembling step she hurriedly returned to
Emily, whom she found sobbing bitterly.

“Lady,” said she, touching her on the arm,
casting upon her a wild glance, and speaking in
a quick, fearful tone, scarcely above her breath:
“Lady, we're in danger, both on us!”

Emily looked up with a start.

“We're in danger, gal,” repeated Hetty; “for
'mong all the villains I've ever known, I've never
seed the like of him as has just left us!”

“We are indeed in danger!” replied Emily,
earnestly, grasping Hetty by the hand. “There
is no dark deed of which John Webber, to gain
his ends, is incapable.”

“I know it, I know it, gal!” returned Hetty,
quickly. “I've watched him while he were a talkin'
to you; I've heard it all—all he's said, and
your sweet replies, that moved me, hard as I am,
to tears—and I know his heart's a rock. Lady,
for more'n sixteen year I've been mixed with bad
men. My husband was a robber himself, and got
shot in his business. I've seen men robbed and
murdered without crying a bit; but looking on
you, somehow's made me a child agin, and made
me think on my innocent days—for once, gal, I
were as innocent as you be. Oh, lady, believe
me, I pities you!”

“Oh then, dear, kind Hetty, assist me to escape!”
rejoined Emily, springing from her pallet—where
during her interview with John she
had remained—and kneeling at the other's feet.
“Oh, assist me to escape, and you shall be rewarded—richly
rewarded! You will by so doing
save me from a fate worse than death itself; and
the good God, who sees all things, will reward you
for it!”

“My will's good enough, gal, but what can I
do? You're a great many miles from home, and
you couldn't never reach thar' without being discovered,
and then my life wouldn't be worth a
button.”

“Oh, God! and is it so?” cried Emily, hiding
her face in her hands.

“Come, come, lady, don't cry now, don't—
cause it makes me feel bad. Rise, gal, rise! It's
I that ought to be kneeling to you, that is so good
and pure. Rise, gal, and I promise you all as can
be done I'll do, though it costs me my life. Thar's
only one way to save you, gal, and that may fail.”

“Ha! one way!” cried Emily, starting to her
feet. “One way!—well, well!—speak, speak!”

“It's dangerous, gal—pre'aps it 'll fail—but it's
the only one as I thinks on now.”

“Well, well—speak!—what is it?”

“Did ye ever here gal”—and Hetty glanced
cautiously around, as if fearful of listeners—“did
ye ever hear o' Ronald Bonardi, the great bandit
cap'en?”

“I have!” replied Emily, with a shudder.

“He lives in this ere quarter.”

“Lives in this quarter!” repeated Emily, in astonishment.
“What mean you, Hetty? Surely,
Bonardi and his band are not in this country now!
You mean he did live here?”

“Hush, gal, hush—not so loud!” said Hetty,
trembling with fear at the course she was taking.
“If we're heerd, it's all up with me. The great
cap'en does live here, and it's to him I'll have to
go to git you rescued.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Emily, with a start. “Hetty,
you must be insane! Rescue me by appealing
to that terrible man?”

“It's the only way,” returned Hetty. “It's
your only chance of escape, gal; besides, he aint
so terrible towards women; cause I knows him,
and knows as how he's made a law too, for I've
hearn 'em talk about it, as makes it death for any
of his band to touch womens. It was he that—
but 'll you swear to keep it secret, and all I've
said?”

“Most solemnly!” replied Emily.

“It was he then, gal, that—” the conclusion
of the sentence was whispered in Emily's ear.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Emily, pausing thoughtfully.
“This is strange—most strange! But why
do you think he will interfere in this instance?”

“To punish them as has broke his law.”

“Ha! then my captors were of his band?”

“Yes, and him as holds you!”

“How! what mean you?”

“Hist! John Webber.”

“Great Heaven!” cried Emily, throwing up her
hands, starting back, and gazing upon Hetty in
astonishment. “Can this be true! John Webber
a bandit?”

“It's true, lady—most true,” said Hetty;
“though if 'twas known as how I told, it 'nd
cost me my life!”

“Fear not, Hetty; you will find your confidence
not misplaced; but now how do you intend
to proceed?”

“Why's, I said, it's dangerous business,” answered
Hetty, “and pre'aps 'll cost me my life;
but for your sweet sake I'll risk it; and if I die,
I'll at least have the intention of one good deed
to balance agin my wicked acts. I'll hunt out
the cave where the great cap'en lives, for I knows
it's somewhere in this ere quarter, and if I can
only jest find it, and see him, then all's safe. But
pre'aps John 'll come back, and miss me, and
then hunt me out and murder me. Pre'aps I'll
not be able to find it, and git lost, and git torn to
death by wild beasts. Thar's a great deal o' danger
about it, lady—but for your sweet sake I'll
risk it; and if I don't never come back, and you
don't never hear nothin' more o' Hetty Brogan,
and you happen to 'scape some other way, you'll
sometimes think on her, wont you, lady?”

“Indeed, indeed I will!” cried Emily, throwing
her arms around Hetty, and bursting into tears.
“Indeed I will, Hetty. God bless you! Whatever
your errors may have been, you have a kind
heart, and God will forgive you! I cannot but
love you, although you have been my jailor;
and if we both escape, you shall evermore find
a true friend in Emily Nevance!”

“Thar', thar',” said Hetty, wiping her eyes;
“don't say no more, don't, 'cause I can't stand
so much goodness! I'll go—I'll go—for it'll be
sweet to die for ye anyhow. Keep up your
sperets, gal, 'cause I'm in a good cause, and think
I'll succeed. Thar', good bye!” and Hetty
turned away.

“Good bye, and may God protect you!” said
Emily, fervently; and as Hetty disappeared, she
bent her knees in a prayer of supplication to
Him who holds the destinies of the weakest and
the most mighty in his hands.

4. CHAPTER IV.

On the same day of the events immediately preceding,

and at the hour of twilight, Ronald Bonardi
was seated by the richly carved table in the
gorgeous apartment known as the Chieftain's
Chamber. His head was uncovered, and his long,
black, curling hair, thrown back from his high,
broad, pale forehead, in rough disorder, seemed
indicative of a mind disturbed and ill at ease.
This was signally apparent in his features. His
brows were knit together, and there was a combination
of the sad and sullen in his eyes, as
though by one thing he was grieved, and by
another roused to a severe, unshaken determination,
the terminus of which would be far from
pleasant. There was great severity also exhibited
around his mouth, the lips of which were compressed
and drawn slightly apart, leaving visible
a small portion of his front teeth. He was seated,
as we have said, by the table, and his eyes were
resting with the expression we have described, upon
some two or three letters which were lying
open thereon. At a little distance in front, on a
sofa, sat his wife, the beautiful Inez, her large
dark eyes fastened tenderly upon him, with a look
of sorrow, while the smile we have previously
described around her mouth, was mournful. Her
features were pale, exhibiting tokens of much
anxiety, and one would easily be led to fancy she
had been weeping. Behind Inez stood the slave
Cyntha, gazing also upon the bandit captain, with
an expression little less sad than that of her mistress.

For some five minutes Bonardi sat in the same
position, during which time not a muscle of his
features changed, as though made fast by the spell
of some deep revery, while the other two, immoveable
as himself, gazed on in silence. At
length he started, and with a deep drawn sigh relaxed
his rigidity of expression, and his eyes wandered
to those of Inez with a softer glance. No
sooner did Inez notice the change, than with an
airy bound she sprang forward, threw her soft
arms around his neck, buried her head upon his
shoulder, while her dark curls mingled playfully
with his.

“My Inez, my own dear Inez,” said Ronald,
in a low, tender voice, far sweeter to her ear than
the softest notes of music, “my own dear Inez,
you at least are true!” As he spoke, he threw
one arm around her waist, drew her fondly to
him, and, as she turned her eyes towards him,
now moist with tears, pressed a kiss of love upon
her rosy lips. “Yes, my own dear Inez, you at
least are true!”

“True, Ronald,” murmured Inez, “ay, true,
true, forever, ever true!” and she bowed her head
upon his breast and wept. “But why do you say
thus, dear Ronald, and why do you look so grieved
and angered to-day?” enquired she at length,
looking up with a sigh. “Are not all true, dear
Ronald?”

“No, dearest,” replied he, compressing his lips,
“all are not true: I would to Heaven they were!
But they at least shall find me true to what I have
sworn.”

“There is trouble then, dear Ronald, and danger
perhaps,” said Inez, quickly.

“There is trouble, Inez, much trouble; but I
apprehend no danger as yet. I have a few treacherous
spirits to deal with, and then I trust all will
be well. My letters from abroad bring me bad
news. Three of my best men, whom I sent forth
as spies, are dead, through their own imprudence.
One shot in a street fight in Cincinnati; one killed
in a duel in New Orleans; and the third, in New
York, for shooting a man on a slight provocation,
has been tried and executed. This is sad news
to receive by one post, for they were all tried
men and true. Each had in his possession private
papers of great moment, from two of whom
they were recovered by their comrades, immediately
after their death; but with regard to the
third, the one executed in New York, it has not
turned out so well—his papers having been seized
upon by the authorities. I have some fears how
it may terminate; for in those so lost, was a secret
plan of extending our band in that quarter; in
fact, of establishing a league, the head quarters of
which should be here, throughout different sections
of the United States. However, the secret
correspondence was written in an invisible ink,
which will only show when the paper is heated,
while in ordinary ink was written something entirely
foreign to the subject. I do not think it
probable they will warm the papers—if not, all is
safe; and even should they do so, I fancy the
contents, by reason of the characters introduced,
will prevent them from making any thing of them
that will lead to our detection: still I would they
had them not. In the neighborhood of Cincinnati
we have already found a few bold hearts who
are ready and willing to join us. But enough of
this, dear Inez, for it is matter that scarcely concerns,
and of course cannot interest you.”

“Any thing that concerns or interests you,
dear Ronald, I always listen to with delight,”
said Inez, sweetly.

“Ah, what would life be without you, sweet
one;” and again Ronald, bending down, pressed
his lips to hers. “But, dear Inez, I must no longer
here, for I have deep matters on my hands. To-night
our band meets on a special purpose, and
already I hear them assembling in the Outer Cave.
There, there, dear Inez, I must go;” and pressing
his lips again to hers, he arose and gathered up the
letters on the table. “Ho! Cyntha,” continued
he, turning to the slave, “bring wine!” and as the
latter obeyed, he took the cup from her hand and
drained it. “Again!” he added, reaching it forth.
Again it was filled, and again he emptied it. “Once
more, Cyntha,” said he, with a wild light in his
eyes; “once more!” The slave obeyed, and the
third cup was drained.

“Oh, Ronald, dear Ronald, what means this?”
cried Inez, who had been gazing upon him with
a look of astonishment. “You are not yourself,
dear Ronald! Something terrible is going to take
place! You, who seldom taste liquor, have drank
three cups, and there is an awful look in your
eye. Oh, dear Ronald, tell me, tell me what is
about to happen!” and she threw her arms around,
as though to detain him.

“Nay,” said he, gently disengaging himself,
“there are things, dear Inez, of which one like
you should know nothing. Question not, but
remember you are a bandit's wife!”

“But one who loves him to whom she pledged
her hand no less for that,” returned Inez, sweetly.
“I fear you are about to encounter danger,
dear Ronald, and if — and if —”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted he, “fear not. I apprehend
no danger. But hark! there is the signal
for me. I must be detained no longer;” and
turning hastily away, without further ceremony,
he drew aside the crimson curtains concealing the
passage, and entered the Outer Cave, while Inez,
with a sad expression, gazed long upon the spot
where she had seen him disappear.

As Ronald had said, a special meeting of the

band had been called for this evening, and already
a large number had assembled when he appeared
among them, with an expression on his
features but few had ever seen before. With a
quick, firm step he mounted the stand, where the
lieutenant already was before him.

“Has the roll been called?” demanded he of the
latter.

“It has not, captain,” answered Piketon.
“The time set for the meeting has not yet expired.”

“You may as well call it, however, for I see
most of our band are here; and should the others
arrive in due time, they shall be exempted from
disobedience.”

As the lieutenant proceeded to obey his command,
Bonardi stepped down and closed the door
of the Inner Cave. It was a massive stone, some
ten inches in thickness, and swung on heavy
iron hinges. Many an eye of that reckless band
of outlaws, was fastened with an enquiring look
upon their leader as he did this, for it was a something
done only on rare occasions, and when matters
were of a too private nature for the ears of
women.

“Give me the roll!” said Bonardi, as the lieutenant
concluded the call; and taking it in his
hand, his eye ran over it hastily, but with a keen,
sure glance. “They are all here,” he continued
in a low tone to Piketon, “that I expected, with
the exception of Saxton, Curdish and Niles. You
will proceed, as soon as circumstances will admit,
to find and order them under arrest, to meet here;
and, mark you! put spies upon them, that they
may not escape. I have my doubts of their fidelity;
but not a word of this to any one—you understand?”

Piketon bowed.

“Gentlemen,” said Bonardi, in a louder tone,
addressing the assemblage, “you are here met for
a special purpose, as of course you are aware,
being notified out of your regular time. For
your promptness in responding to the call, I
thank you! and by it feel assured that though I may
govern some traitors, most of my band are true.
I perceive surprise on your countenances, by
which I know that most of you do not understand
me. I shall not detain you with any long explanation,
but rather let actions speak. In short,
gentlemen, you are here met to witness the trial of
a traitor!”

At the last words, a sudden start was visible
with most of the party present, while with some
few it was accompanied with a slight paleness.—
Bonardi noticed all, with a quick, searching
glance, and turning to Piketon, added: “Bring
up the prisoner.”

Raising a trap door at the far end of the platform—which
by the way was some fifteen feet in
length—Piketon immediately disappeared, while
every eye was bent in that direction, with a look
of anxious wonder, to learn who was the one suspected
of a crime in their eyes so degrading, and
which, if followed by conviction, must end in a
manner the most tragical. They were not long
kept in suspense, for Piketon shortly reappeared;
and low curses, deep imprecations, horrible oaths,
and fierce, angry gestures succeeded, as they
recognised in his companion, the ugly, quivering,
coward'y features, and the stooped, aged, trembling
form of David the Jew. As Piketon led
him forward in front of the stand, his small black
eyes turned with a rapid, sickly glance from one
to the other of the party; but he saw nothing,
save such dark, stern, angry looks, as made his
very heart shrink within him.

“Oh, good shentlemens —”

“Silence, Jew!” interrupted Bonardi, in a voice
of thunder. “You are here to speak only when
called upon!”

“Oh, good Mistoor Captains —”

“Silence, I say!” cried Bonardi, with an angry
gesture. “This insolence in the face of my commands
is unbearable! Piketon, place a pistol to
his head; and if he speak again ere spoken to,
send a bullet through his brain!” Piketon instantly
obeyed, and the Jew, knowing the command
would be promptly executed to the letter,
stood mute and trembling.

“You remember, gentlemen,” said Ronald,
“that when we met here last, one of our party,
Curdish—who I am sorry to say is now absent—
insinuated in rather strong terms that the Jew
intended to betray us—or to that effect—but at
the same time was not willing to swear to it.—
You will also recollect that I ordered him under
arrest, and told you the matter should be looked
to. I questioned him in private, and learned
enough to be satisfied that for the present our safety
might depend upon having the Jew closely
watched. However, as I wished also to give the
latter a fair opportunity to forego any wicked design
he might have in contemplation, and to talk
with him on some other matters, I ordered him
under arrest likewise. During my examination
of him, I became more than ever convinced that
he was meditating treachery; and my last words to
him were, `go Jew, but beware, for a sleepless eye
will be upon you!' He made no reply, but there
was in his countenance a look of savage cunning,
which seemed to say, `I shall outwit and betray
you.' So I interpreted it; and as soon as he was
gone, I called one of my sentinels—a man in whom
I had implicit confidence, both as to being trusted,
and possessing sufficient cunning to overreach
the Jew—related the whole matter, bade him dog
his steps, and take whatever measures he might
see proper to learn if my suspicious were correct;
and, if so, so soon as he could gather proof sufficient,
to bring him hither—which latter you perceive,
gentlemen, has been done. Now for the
proof. Hendrick, you will stand forth, so as to
confront the prisoner!”

At the word, a tall, thin faced, intellectual,
cunning looking man, with grey eyes, came forward
to the stand.

“I suppose you are aware, Hendrick,” continued
the captain, addressing him, “of the penalty
of giving false evidence?”

“I am!” replied Hendrick, calmly.

“Enough! Now let us hear your testimony in
regard to David.”

“Shall I relate everything that occurred, captain?”

“No, it is unnecessary for us to waste time.—
Relate only that which bears directly on his treasonable
design.”

“Well, then,” began Hendrick, “after following
the Jew through all his crooks and turns, until
he reached his place of abode, on the banks of
the Mississippi, which he did about dusk on the
third day from his leaving here—having traveled
the whole distance on foot—I determined, if possible,
to secrete myself within his hovel, where I
judged I should be the better able to learn of his
private intentions. Fortunately his own imprudence
favored me in the first, as his tongue afterwards
did in the last. By great adroitness I managed

to keep him within sight the whole distance,
and remain myself unseen. As I have said, he
reached his hovel about dusk of the third day; and
the shadows of the coming night favoring me, I
was enabled to be close upon him when he entered.

“To my surprise he did not close and bolt his
door immediately, and availing myself of this, a
moment or two after, I noiselessly followed him
across the threshold, and found him engaged with
flint and steel in striking a light. The flash from
the steel enabled me to perceive a table, which I
succeeded in reaching, and concealing myself under,
without alarming him. After having lit a
candle, he proceeded to bolt his door, and then,
as if he felt himself entirely free from danger, let
off a volley of curses and all manner of imprecations
on the banditti, its captain especially,
which he finished by swearing to have revenge
on the whole party. After this, for a time,
he became more quiet, and proceeding to a kind
of closet, regaled himself with food. This done,
he seated himself by the table, underneath which
I was lying, and for some two hours was silent.
At length he began again, by uttering the word
revenge, and swearing he would have it on those
who had foiled him in a matter concerning some
girl; that to get this revenge, he would, on the
following day, proceed to St. Louis, betray the
band, and secure the reward offered for our captain's
head.”

As Hendrick said this, several of the party
present, unable longer to smother their wrath,
burst into a yell of rage, with cries of, “Death—
death! Away with him! Enough proof! Wretch!
Villian!”—while knives and pistols flashed in the
light of the torches, and some few moved forward
as if to seize the Jew, who, ghastly and breathless,
was nearly fainting with terror.

“Hold!” exclaimed Bonardi, waiving his hand
with dignity. “Justice shall be done, gentlemen,
fear not.” In an instant that rough sea of passion
was calm as a still lake, when Ronald again
added, “Go on, Hendrick, but be brief as possible.”

“Railing in this manner for awhile,” resumed
Hendrick, “he finally touched upon his money,
some papers in his possession, and how best he
might dispose of the latter.”

“Yes, papers!” said Bonardi, quickly, interrupting
the speaker. “Yes, well, what of the
papers?”

“Why, as I did not understand the allusion,”
answered Hendrick, “I paid but little regard to
his remarks; though I remember his muttering
something about disposing of them to some one
who loved the girl, probably meaning the same
one he had alluded to before.”

“The same, doubtless, but continue.”

“After going on in this manner sometime, he
proceeded to the closet, and brought forth a bag
and some papers. The bag contained money, as
I could tell by hearing him empty it on the table;
and for a full hour he amused himself, as nigh as
I could judge, in counting and handling it, and
some half hour more in examining the papers,
when he returned them to the closet. While
there, I heard him mutter something about killing
some one; then he came for the light, and
seemed much agitated. Soon after he went back,
the light disappeared, and curiosity prompting
me, I crept forth to learn what had become of
him. I entered the closet carefully, and, to my
surprise, found a trap-door raised, leading down
into a vault, from which issued a stench so disagreeable,
that I immediately retired, but not until
I had heard some words passed with one below,
whom the Jew, as I judged, had gone down
to murder.”

“Indeed!” remarked Ronald, with interest,
“here is mystery, truly. I would I had known
of this before. Speak, Jew, who had you there?”
But the Jew, in his fright and astonishment at
hearing all these things, which he believed known
only to himself, so correctly narrated, had lost all
power of speech, and Ronald nodded to Hendrick
to proceed.

“How it terminated below, I do not know,”
continued the witness; “but just at this moment
I was astonished by hearing the approach of a
horse, and, following immediately, a knocking
on the door, with a demand for admittance, and
I crept under the table, wondering what I was to
behold next. The Jew shortly appeared, evidently
much alarmed, for he enquired in a trembling
voice who was there. The answer was in our
phrase, `Ele lio.' ”

“Ha!” exclaimed Bonardi: “Well?”

“The Jew, out of fear, then opened the door,
when a tall figure walked in, and, after some prevar
ication, told him (the Jew) that he had papers
concerning a young girl, for which he (the
stranger) had come expressly. This the Jew
stoutly denied, when the stranger took another
method, and frightened him into owning the
truth. The result was that the Jew brought forward
the papers, and gave them to the other, who
immediately departed.”

“And do you know that stranger?” asked Ronald.

“I do not, for his face was concealed by a
mask.”

“That he is one of our band, is evident from
his reply to the Jew,” said Ronald. “See you
in any person present a figure corresponding with
his?”

Hendrick glanced slowly around upon the assemblage,
who were listening with breathless interest,
until his eye fell upon John Webber,
where it rested for a moment, while the latter
grew deadly pale. Hendrick noticed this, and
replied:

“I see none, captain, that better corresponds
than the person of Webber.”

“Ha! how is this, sir?” asked Ronald, quickly,
fastening his eyes keenly upon John, and marking
the change in his countenance. “How is
this, sir?”

“I know nothing of it,” replied John, firmly,
immediately recovering himself.

“The voice tallies well,” remarked Hendrick.

“Would you insinuate, sir!” began John, with
a flashing eye, and fierce expression.

“Hold!” exclaimed Ronald, interrupting him;
“this is no place to quarrel. You say you know
nothing of it—so let it pass. If I find you have
deceived me, however,—beware, sir, beware!
Hendrick, you will proceed with your evidence
concerning the Jew.”

“After the stranger had departed,” again resumed
Hendrick, “the Jew seemed beside himself
with rage; and instead of waiting for the
morrow, as was his first intention, he swore he
would instantly set off for St. Louis, betray the
band, and at once seek security from the law.
With this intent he started, and with a very different
one I followed. When he had reached
some half way, I touched him on the shoulder,

and told him I arrested him in the name of Ronald
Bonardi. He trembled violently, and offered
me his bag of gold to let him go. I answered I
was not to be bought, and brought him hither.
Thus ends my testimony, which, according to
our laws, I affirm before God and man is true,
and stake my life upon the oath!”

“You have done well, Hendrick,” said Ronald,
as the other concluded, “and deserve great praise,
with a suitable reward.”

“The praise is sufficient, noble captain,” returned
Hendrick. “The reward I wish not. I
have done but my duty.”

“Nevertheless you shall not be forgotten.
Promptly to reward, as promptly to punish, shall
henceforth be the justice motto of Ronald Bonardi.
Gentlemen, you have heard the testimony
against the Jew. If there is one or more among
you, who doubts the evidence just given, or who
believes the Jew guiltless of the crime with
which he is charged—namely, intentional perjury,
and treason against us as a body—he or they
will now come forward and make known the
same.”

Silence reigned throughout the cave. Not a
man moved.

“Jew,” continued Bonardi, solemnly, with
compressed lips, “before this body, in the hearts of
each, you stand condemned as a traitor. When
you joined us, you took a solemn oath, which in
your heart you have broken, as you would have
broken by your deeds, had not our interference
prevented. Your minutes are numbered. You
are an old, grey-headed, grey-bearded man, and
your soul is black with crimes, which, if not repented
of now, will go with you to another world.
You present a spectacle at once pitiable and revolting;
and base as you are, I cannot but regret
that it falls to my lot to fulfil the letter of our law,
and make you an example to others; but I have
sworn to do my duty faithfully; and were you
my own brother, my bosom friend, I would keep
my oath. Although appearances were much
against you when here before, I deemed it my
duty to warn you, so that if in reality you meditated
treachery, you might have a chance to repent
of your base design in season. You heeded
not my warning, and now with you rest the consequences.
Your sentence is death! Have you
any request to make ere the fatal moment? If so,
speak! we listen.”

“Oh, oh! mine Gott! mercys—mercys!” gasped
the Jew, sinking upon his knees.

“Coward!” cried Ronald, fiercely; “base, paltry
coward!—you were unworthyto belong to us!
I'll hear no more! Piketon, you will put a bandage
around his eyes, and lead him forward. If he
attempt to cry out, gag him!” But this latter injunction
was unnecessary, for the Jew in his
fright had actually fainted.

Piketon instantly passed a kerchief around
the Jew's eyes; and then, placing his hands under
his armpits, raised and drew him forward, with
his feet trailing on the ground, to within a short
distance of where paced the sentinel, while every
eye followed the movement, and every heart felt
a pressure of awe upon it. As long as they had
been a band, an execution they had never yet
witnessed.

“It only remains now,” said Bonardi, in a deep,
solemn voice, “for me to read the law, that I may
not be accused hereafter of acting illegally;” and
taking from a desk before him a roll of parchment,
he opened it and read as follows:

“Sec. II, Art. X. If any member shall at any
time be accused of treasonable intentions, he shall
be duly tried before the captain, and such members
as the latter may deem advisable to be present,
and if found guilty of betraying the band, or
even of an attempt to betray the same, he shall
suffer death within an hour from his conviction,
as provided under the Black Law, in Article XV
of Section I.” Taking up another roll he continued:

“Black Law, Sec. I, Art. XV. Any member
sentenced to punishment under this law, shall be
shot in the head, unto death, by the hand of the
chief, and his body be cast forth in the open air,
to be devoured by wild beasts.”

“And now, gentlemen,” continued Bonardi,
laying down the roll, “am I not fully justified in
all that I have done, and am about to do, in executing
yonder traitor?”

“You are, you are!” cried a dozen voices.

“Enough!”

Drawing a pistol from his belt, Ronald descended
from the stand, and with a firm step, and compressed
lips, walked forward to the Jew, while
each member rose to his feet, to look on with an
expression peculiar to himself. And strange and
varying were those expressions. Some frowned
heavily; some smiled darkly; some looked pale,
and shut their teeth hard; and some gazed on
with seeming indifference. Bonardi himself seemed
composed and calm, with a look of unshaken
determination; but there was, notwithstanding, a
slight paleness in his features, an unusual compression
of the lips, as though requiring an effort
to keep them firm. As he approached the Jew,
who was lying on the ground, the latter appeared
suddenly to recover his senses, and with one hand
raised himself into a sitting posture, while with
the other he removed from his eyes the bandage,
and with a horror stricken look glared round
upon the assembly.

“ 'Tis well, Jew!” said Ronald, as he paused
by his side, while the cave was as silent as the
chamber of death. “You would see once more the
faces of those you would have betrayed. 'Tis
well, Jew, 'tis well! Look well on each, and bear
the impression with you to eternity, for on earth
you will behold them no more. Brothers of you
they were—who would have risked life for you,
many of them, if necessary—but they are your
brothers no more.”

The Jew turned his old eyes upon the speaker,
with a strange, bewildered expression. For a
moment Ronald ceased, and then said solemnly:

“Justice waits. Your time, Jew, has come.—
Farewell!” Raising his pistol as he spoke, with
the last words came a sharp report—a shudder
passed through the assembly—and the Jew, with
a ghastly contortion of visage, fell back without
a groan.

His soul was with his God.

“So die all traitors!” spoke the voice of Ronald
Bonardi, after a moment's pause, in a tone so deep
and solemn almost sepulchral, that it thrilled the
bosom of every one present. “Comrades,” and
he moved his eyes slowly over each, in a most
impressive manner, “comrades, whose turn among
you next? 'Tis the first blood upon my
hands;” and he held them forth, and gazed sadly
upon them; “whose blood is destined to cover the
foul stain? Be warned, be warned in time!” and
turning away, he slowly retraced his steps to the
farther end of the cave, and again mounted the
stand. “Bear the corpse without the cave until

you depart,” he continued, “when some of you
will take it in a boat to the Osage, row a short
distance up the stream, and cast it upon the bank,
far above high water mark. So ends the career
of the Jew.”

As he spoke, four men laid hold of the body and
bore it up the ladder. In a moment they returned,
when Bonardi resumed:

“Here,” he said, taking up a well filled bag,
“is the money which belonged to the deceased.—
This will be divided among you, when our other
business for the evening is closed. Piketon will
make the division. By our law, I am entitled to
one-tenth. Hendrick, besides your share, you
will accept mine.”

“But, captain—”

“Nay, Hendrick, no remark: I would have it
so. And now, comrades, I have something important
to communicate. Listen! You will remember
that for some time past we have held in
contemplation an attack on a rich planter living
in Tennessee. To speak candidly my own
mind, I must say the design never suited me;
and in its place I have one to offer, which I trust
will meet your approbation. Some two or three
days since, I received a letter from one of my secret
agents in New Orleans, which informs me
that of late there has been a great run on the banks
there for specie; and that to supply the demand,
they will be forced to borrow, for a time, from
neighboring cities; and that he believed an order
had already been sent to St. Louis for a large sum,
which doubtless would shortly pass down on one
of the steamers, and which, should we be fortunate
enough to capture, would in all probability
make our fortunes. As soon as I had read this, I
set to work to learn the truth of it; and as I am well
known among the merchants and men of wealth
in St. Louis, as a speculator in land, under a different
cognomen, I was not long in finding it fully
corroborated. By dint of perseverence, I have
been enabled to learn that a boat, which leaves
within a few days, will carry this money; of the
amount I am yet ignorant, though without question
the sum will be large. My plan is this: I
will ascertain to a certainty the day of her leaving,
and also the hour. I will learn, too, the speed of
the boat, and calculate the distance, so that we
may find a good point to station ourselves, where
the current hugs the western shore, and where
she will pass about dark. In the meantime I will
procure several skiffs, and have them floated down
to the rendezvous. These must be manned, and
lie concealed under cover of the bank until the
given signal. As the steamer heaves in sight,
some two or three of our party must hail her from
the bank, when she, under the impression that
they wish to take passage, will lay to and send out
a boat. As the latter touches the shore, the oarsman
must be seized, gagged and bound, quickly
and quietly, while some three of our party will
instantly leap into the boat and row back. Instead
of approaching the larger boat direct, they
will cross her bows, and when on the other side,
will seemingly get into a fight, and discharge several
pistols. This of course will attract the attention
of all on board the steamer, and be the
signal for the concealed boats to shoot out and
approach her on the larboard side—her head being
up stream—which must be done with lightning
speed, but without noise. These, however, will
be commanded by Piketon and myself. The moment
we come along side, some of the boldest and
most agile of our party will follow me in leaping
on board, where will be found three of our band,
who have come down from St. Louis, ready to
show us where the money is stowed, and assist
us in getting it into our boats. The money will
be found in small casks, which can be easily handled,
and, to succeed, must be handled expeditiously.
It is not probable that we can remove it all;
but in the confusion that will ensue, doubtless
enough to enrich us. If we are pressed hard, we
must discharge some of our pistols, not with the
intention of wounding, but merely to frighten,
and thicken the confusion, while at the same time
we will add the old cry, which I trust is not yet
forgotten: `Yield to the attack of Ronald Bonardi!'
We must keep a plenty of undischarged
pistols by us, however, to be used only in cases of
extreme necessity, and then not to take life if it
can be avoided. As soon as we have accomplished
our design, I will give the signal by a shrill
whistle, when each man must spring for his boat,
and row as for life to the shore. We will then
knock out the heads of the casks, empty the
money into bags, throw them across our saddles,
(for our horses must be in waiting, close at hand)
mount and away, in various directions, to rendezvous
here as soon as possible. Such is my plan.”

As he concluded, the cave echoed with three
tremendous cheers, and “Long live Ronald Bonardi,”
when he immediately responded:

“I am pleased, gentlemen, to know that my
project finds with you so much favor; but I will
not disguise from you, what I cannot from myself,
that my plan may fail; and at the best, will
be attended with a great deal of danger, perhaps
loss of life; and, furthermore, that it will in all
probability rouse up the country against us, as
was done heretofore. In the latter case, each
must make his way out of it as quietly as possible,
and remain until the storm has blown over.—
And now, a word or two more, and I have done.
You will each and all of you hold yourselves in
readiness for a moment's warning, with horses
well fed and rested for a long journey. When
you hear the signal of three blasts on a bugle, be
it night or day, you will mount and ride to the
river. The rendezvous is the hut of the traitor
Jew, where you will learn more. And now, so
soon as Piketon has made a division of the money,
you will quietly disperse to your several homes,
and hold yourselves, as I said before, prepared for
any event. For your kind attention, I thank you!
Adieu.”

Descending from the stand, Bonardi opened the
stone door and entered the Chieftain's Chamber,
with a clouded brow and heavy heart; for he felt
there was blood upon his hands. An hour later,
he was seated by the table, on which rested his
arms, with his head bowed upon them, while Inez,
standing by his side, was playing upon her guitar,
and singing a tender strain. Suddenly he
raised his head.

“Ha!” said he; “there is the signal for me again!
What can it mean at this hour?” and rising as he
spoke, he entered the larger cave, where he found
the sentinel alone, the remainder of the party having
departed.

“A woman awaits you in a boat without, captain,”
said the sentinel, bowing respectfully.—
“She could not give the pass and countersign, and
so I could not admit her.”

“A woman!” exclaimed Ronald, in astonishment.
“To see me—a woman!—what wants she
here?” and with a quick step, he moved forward
and mounted the ladder. In a few minutes he

returned, and seemed much agitated.

“Inez,” said he, entering the Inner Cave, “it
is necessary for me to be absent now. Ere morning
I will return;” and without waiting a reply,
he seized upon a brace of pistols lying on the ta
ble and withdrew. “Did Piketon leave word
where he should rest to-night?” asked he of the
sentinel, as he again mounted the ladder.

“Ay, captain; he mentioned the Hollow.”

“ 'Tis well!” and Ronald disappeared.